Chasing the Dragon
by hap.e.daze
Summary: Mac and Christine are putting their lives back together while a friend's life is falling apart. Partly a case-fic, and partly personal drama. Takes place a bit in the future with an established marriage between Mac/Christine. I've taken some liberties with Mac's life, but it's been fun to do. I hope you'll check it out! Mac/Christine; Sid; with cameos from everyone else. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Chasing the Dragon**

**Chapter One**

Mac strolled out of the train stop, tossing an empty cup of coffee into the trash and a folded newspaper into the recycling bin. The Sunday afternoon train ride had been, predictably, relaxed and mostly empty of people. Mac didn't mind commuting this way, and it had become a habit for the boss of the Lab to put in a few hours on Sunday mornings followed by a forty minute train ride on the Long Island Railroad. It seemed like he was visiting another world, although the locals still called it New York.

Today's routine had been slightly different, resulting in a shorter workday. He and Christine had ridden their bikes through Central Park, making the loop more than once, until they were panting at the exertion. Then, dodging traffic, they parked them in front of their favorite neighborhood diner before enjoying a leisurely brunch. Even though Mac knew he had work waiting, he belonged with Christine that morning.

Inexplicably, the waitress had stumbled, spilling the cream down the front of Mac's shirt. Christine had laughed, understanding herself how accidents in restaurants can happen. Mac had smiled, easing the waitress' embarrassment and assured her it wasn't a problem. Christine's eyes had even sparkled as Mac pushed the young lady away from dabbing at his front with a wadded up napkin. It had been a light moment in a rather dark week, and Mac was heartened that the two of them could still find ways to laugh.

He had only put in ninety minutes at the office before distraction and temptation were calling his name. He packed up early and sat in the back of the church, his legs extended and crossed at the ankles. It was an unfamiliar time for him, the room full of unfamiliar people, but once in a while, Mac needed that. He left feeling renewed and he was glad he had made the time.

The walk from the train stop to his in-laws' home was less than two blocks, but he grabbed his phone to check for a text. Once in a while, his wife would text him as he got off the train to ask him to pick something up for the family dinner. Only one text today: _Truth or Dare? _She had sent it just as Mac had gotten on the train, and he was only now seeing it. He chuckled to himself and typed, _Really? We're playing games now? See you in a few. _His step lightened as he hopped the curb and jaywalked across the street to the small bungalow. He knew the scene that would greet him, and he welcomed it.

It wasn't always that way; Mac was far more of an introvert than he cared to admit, and sometimes, the last thing he wanted to do after a long shift that spanned the night, was to spend Sunday afternoon with his in-laws. Christine's aging parents still called the house their home and while his father-in-law was a little slower on his feet than he was when he and Christine had gotten married, he still got along quite well. His mother-in-law was feisty and active for her age, and she enjoyed the tradition of a Sunday evening dinner in her home, as long as the table included her children and their families.

Christine was the oldest of the remaining children, but she had three younger brothers. Sam and Emily had three children, ranging from sixteen to twenty-three; David and Caroline had two teenagers; and Tony, the youngest, was divorced with an eleven year old. So, all together, they were fifteen, give or take a few depending on custodial arrangements and the presence or absence of significant others. Mac didn't know how his mother-in-law did it. He remembered his own mother's stress at preparing an occasional meal just for her parents. Christine's mother did it weekly for her whole family.

She had help, of course. Christine loved trying new dishes on her family, and her sisters-in-law owned the kitchen as if it were their own. For his part, Mac enjoyed being surrounded by a family who had embraced him as much as they love their daughter.

His phone vibrated again: _You didn't answer. Truth or dare? _

Mac stopped before he entered the house and considered the text. It wasn't uncommon for her to send distractingly coy texts designed to get under his skin, yet if his messages were ever subpoenaed, they hovered on just the right side of the line. His wife was deceptively playful. Few people saw that side of her, and it had taken months before the rather serious woman had shown Mac her wit and confident banter.

She was obviously trying to change the mood between the couple. It had been stiflingly heavy for the past six days, and Mac knew the pair needed some lighthearted distraction. So he replied: _Let's play tonight._

Her response was almost instant: _Oooh… Clever. I'm holding you to it._

_For sure,_ he typed before punching in the combination to the gate to the fenced-in side yard.

The phone vibrated one more time: _Find a way for us to leave early_, she ordered.

Mac chuckled as he pushed the gate open and hopped up the three concrete steps to the backdoor that entered into the kitchen. He tapped on the door as he opened it, calling out as he entered, "Hey, it's Mac."

"Hey!" his sister-in-law practically shouted as she stretched out the greeting.

"Emily," he said, smiling and kissing the cheek that she offered. His eyes were searching for Christine. Emily reached for his work bag and set it at the coat rack as she asked how the train to Long Island was. Not bad today, he replied, his standard answer, since the train commute was always preferable to the lengthy car ride from his office. His eyes flitted to the living room, asking silently if Christine was there.

"She ran to the store with Mama." The whole family continued to use the old-world nomenclature with her parents, even though her parents had emigrated as children from Germany in the thirties. It had taken several months after their marriage before Mac felt comfortable enough to adopt the practice himself. "She forgot bread," she said, arching her eyebrows. "Bread. I start to worry when she goes to the store and comes home without bread." Mac shrugged; he could relate. He often forgot important items on the shopping list. "And, just so you know," she continued, "I told Christine we need to talk to Papa about the checkbook." Mac furrowed his brow. "He forgot to record two checks." Mac stared, not understanding the problem. "Two checks, Mac," she repeated in a tone that told Mac that this was a serious matter. "He could have overdrawn his account."

"Did he?"

"No, but that's not the point." Mac nodded; he was missing the point, but that was okay. It was Christine's issue to address with her. He washed his hands before helping himself to some carrots and celery on a platter on the counter. Without looking at him, Emily asked quietly, "How's Christine?"

Mac shook his head in ambivalence. "She's hanging in there."

"And you?" she asked pointedly.

"We'll be alright," he said.

Emily continued chopping green peppers for the veggie platter, seeming to consider the response. Mac just hoped the conversation was over. He opened the refrigerator to help himself to a soda and stopped when he felt Emily's eyes on him. He looked back, eyebrows raised expectantly. She laid her knife down and looked at her brother-in-law with tears in her eyes. _Jesus, _Mac thought. _It isn't over._ She reached out and squeezed his arm. "Christine never got a fair shake with this." Mac frowned. "She would have been a really good mother."

Mac ran a hand over his face, irritated that in a period of forty-five seconds, his sister-in-law had gotten to the heart of the matter that had consumed them this week, and frankly, right now Mac rather hoped to avoid the topic. "Yeah," he exhaled. "We'll be alright though," he repeated. "She takes it in stride, you know?" Emily nodded. "Better than me anyway," he added with a touch of humor.

She looked at him tenderly and then reached her hand out and cupped his cheek in sympathy. Mac smiled a little and she whispered, "We are _so_ sorry. Is there anything we can do?" Mac shook his head quickly. "Are you sure? Do you …" She chewed on her bottom lip and then asked, "Anything. I don't know. I don't even know what to say."

"Em," Mac said, putting a little space between them. "We're okay." He smiled and nodded to reassure her. "We'll be alright," he said for the third time.

* * *

Mac lay on his back, propped against two pillows. His left arm was bent at the elbow and he rest his hand behind his head. His bare feet were crossed at the ankles, and he held a book in his right hand. The lamp cast a dim yellow glow throughout the room. Christine walked in, wearing a pair of baggy cotton pants and a simple white camisole. She took off her watch and earrings and set them on the nightstand and crawled into bed. He moved his arm and pulled her close to him, the first acknowledgement that he heard her. He adjusted the book, and she rest her face under his chin, letting her arm rest on his chest. He shifted again, whispering, "Sorry. Your hair is in my face." She smiled and started to move, but he held her close.

It felt good to lay in bed together.

Christine was craving the quiet time alone with her husband. The week had been busy. Mac had put in long hours at the Lab and engaged in strenuous exercise on his off-time, while Christine had met with prospective clients and deep cleaned her restaurant at every spare moment. Everything had changed on Monday. When they realized suddenly that they had time to fill, they utilized every second on projects that had been on their "to-do" lists for months.

It was catching up with them, she knew, and Mac knew it too. That was why he had taken the morning off for bikes and brunch. They were quiet, introspective activities, and Mac and Christine could do them together, but both held some ability to distract. Tonight, though, it was just the two of them in a quiet bedroom, and it was time to think about it, time to talk about it, painful as it was.

"Did you have fun tonight?" she asked. Mac shrugged. It was fine. "It was strange," she said after a moment of silence.

"In what way?" Mac asked, his nose still in the book.

"Even though we do that every week, I'm not sure I expected how I would feel seeing all those kids at the table." Mac closed the book and set it to his side and shifted in bed so he could see her better. He nodded. "It's like … this is the week I realized I'm not ever going to have children. Before … Before, there was always hope. But now … this is it."

He reached his hand over and gently placed it on her stomach. He adjusted so his hand lay under her camisole and on her bare skin. He ran his thumb up and down the fading scar. She blinked back a few tears at the tender gesture . "Don't regret decisions you made years ago, Chris. You couldn't have known this would happen."

"But what about you? You always wanted to be a father and I think about what you're giving up to be with me and …"

"Hey, hey, hey," he said softly, interrupting her. He leaned over and kissed her lips. One hand still rest on her stomach and the other lingered in her hair, his thumb brushing at her cheek. "I don't want to hear that because it's not true," he whispered. "And you know it's not true. So don't tell yourself that." She nodded subtly, not convinced but Mac accepted it for now. He took a deep breath and then asked, "Truth or dare?"

She smiled a little and replied, "Truth."

"Do you want to try it again?" he asked.

She hesitated, and Mac waited. "Do _you_?" she responded quietly.

"I don't know," he replied honestly.

"It", of course, was the prospect of adoption. Mac and Christine had spent months researching options, engaging in home studies, preparing portfolios. And then they waited. After what felt like too long, they had been selected by a lovely young woman whose pregnancy was interfering with her desire to finish college. They had bonded over coffee and dinner, paid medical bills too expensive to fathom, prepared an open adoption plan, attended childbirth classes and ultrasounds, met the grandparents. As the due date approached, the birth mother started to withdraw slightly, and the agency told them to prepare for the possibility that it could fall through. Yet, a week before her due date, she had called, asked to meet with them again, told the couple that all was in order, and informed them she was just nervous. They had left the lunch feeling reassured, so it had been devastating when the social worker had called on Monday to tell them the birth mother had gone into labor and had simply changed her mind.

The pain was unlike anything Christine had experienced before. It wasn't quite like a death, but it wasn't easier than that either. It was different. It was the sting of rejection, although she knew it had nothing to do with them and everything to do with the young lady's emotions at being a mother. It was sadness at losing a child, but the baby never was theirs in the first place, so that wasn't quite it either. It was grief at losing a dream, certainly, but in all honesty, she had grieved that dream when she had had a hysterectomy years before marrying Mac.

Christine didn't know what she was feeling.

All she knew was that when she and Mac had gotten married, they had been content to never have children. One day, she had said – almost as an aside – that they could adopt a child if they wanted to. Mac had chuckled but hadn't responded. A few days later, he brought it up. And then Christine brought it up. And then it took on a life of its own. They had spent most of their marriage dedicating their lives to this endeavor. The realization that one person could shatter that dream, ruin their plans, and play game with their emotions angered her. Yet, she was full of compassion for the young lady.

"Chrissy," Mac said quietly, interrupting her thoughts. She smiled at the term of endearment that he rarely used. She focused on his eyes. "Talk to me," he ordered.

"I don't really know how I feel," she said, "but I don't think I can do that again." Mac nodded, his eyes clouded. She didn't know if he was disappointed or relieved. "How do you feel about that?" she pressed.

He spun his wedding ring in a circle and then nodded. "I feel fine with that." She leaned forward and kissed his lips. Then she leaned back and arched her eyebrows, daring him to continue. "I don't know how I feel either," he finally admitted.

"I think we need time," Christine said sensibly. "We'll sort it out later." He nodded and then Christine tilted her head back and forth, a sign of tension in her neck. He spun his index finger in the air, indicating she should turn over. She did and Mac straddled her back and began to knead her shoulders. He frowned, feeling a knot beneath her right deltoid muscle and he pushed at it with his thumb. "Oh my god," Christine murmured. "What are you doing to me?" He chuckled and leaned over to kiss the nape of her neck and then blew air on it. Christine giggled at the sensation and then asked, out of the blue, "What was it like to be an only child?"

Mac considered the question, his hands still kneading her flesh. After a moment, he squeezed gently and rolled off her. "It's all I knew." He laughed and then said, "My parents were quiet people so the house was quiet too. Not like your house," he quipped. "I got a lot of attention. Mostly from my mom. My dad worked a lot, but when he was home, I didn't have to share him with anyone." He paused a second and then added, "They were old for parents. Like we would have been."

"Were you lonely?"

"Sometimes," he acknowledged. "Once in a while, I'd set up a board game for four and I'd play all the parts." She laughed out loud. "I had friends though." She wrinkled her nose in disbelief, teasing him. "I was probably spoiled, although my dad … he ran a tight ship. My mom, though …" Mac chuckled now. "I ran circles around her. And I did a lot of running around, especially as a teenager. More than I should have." He shook his head at the memories.

"Our baby would have been an only child. Probably anyway." Suddenly Christine asked, "Truth or dare?"

"Dare," Mac teased.

She reached her arms around his neck and pulled him over her. She kissed his mouth and ran her fingers through his hair. She brought her hand to his side, beneath his t-shirt, and slowly drew circles as she never let him go. Mac's breath caught as she kissed his neck and his hands skimmed her hips. She pulled back and Mac hesitated a moment. She said, "Take me away." Mac furrowed his brow and shook his head; he didn't understand. "On vacation. Somewhere. Anywhere."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Becca stood in the dirty restroom at the bus terminal and ran her hands under the cold water. She looked at her reflection and tried to smooth the flyaways of her blonde hair. It was straight, limp and thin. She used to have lovely hair. Her father used to stroke it gently as she was falling asleep and tell her fairy tales of princesses and unicorns. She took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. She was going to do this. She took another deep breath and squeezed her eyes closed and then she looked at herself again. The dark circles were prominent and her eyes were sunken. Her teeth weren't great either, but she knew that was the least of her problems.

After she left the bus station, she walked past the junkies in the alley. She forced herself to hold her head high and keep looking forward. She needed to do this, and she couldn't do it if she wasn't clean. It had been the worst hours of her life but she had done it and now she was clean and if she didn't get to his apartment clean, she knew she'd kill herself. She had nothing else.

She didn't know if he'd take her in. Her mother wouldn't, that much was certain. She had stopped there first. She turned her away, telling her she had spent too many nights praying, too many nights trusting her baby girl was clean, too many nights at police stations, hospitals, homeless shelters. She'd put her mother through hell. She would love her until the day was done, her mom said, but she couldn't house the girl. She just couldn't have her home, never knowing if she'd wake up, if she'd have to call an ambulance, if she'd disappear. Her mom was smart; she knew the allure of heroin would take her again.

This time had to be different, she told herself. It just _had _to be.

She hadn't seen her father since she was fifteen. He had left home when she was eleven and, for a while, the every other weekend routine worked well. But then he got busy and he met Ruby and it was clear she didn't like having a young one in the home. Her dad insisted, though, and she appreciated that, but he still stayed with her and that made her mad. He was a good father, but he drank more than he should. And she knew that had a lot to do with her parents' divorce. At the time, she took her mother's side; her father was too kind to argue with her and tell her the truth.

But she was a smart girl and as she got older, she realized her mother wasn't innocent either. A marriage disintegrated and sometimes it was no one's fault and sometimes it was everyone's fault. She was lonely so she found friends where she shouldn't and she caused trouble. She refused to go to school; she refused to see her dad; she ran away; she tried drugs.

In retrospect, everything else had been resolvable. She could have re-enrolled in school. She could have patched things up with her dad. She could have come home. But she could never stop the drugs and that had been her downfall. She was homeless most of the time. Sometimes she had a place to stay. Sometimes she did things she shouldn't to have a place to stay. That was mostly in the winter. But she didn't have a job. She didn't have a degree. And now her time was running out.

She took a deep breath as she stood in front of the brownstone with numbers that matched the ones on the index card in her hand. Her dad lived here. Had lived here for three years, according to her mom. She wondered if he expected her. Had her mom called? Would Ruby be there? Would he let her in? She rest her hands on her belly and wondered if it was too late.

Things just _had _to work out. He was her last resort. And so she rang the bell.

* * *

Mac swayed on the balls of his feet as he stood in the elevator. He was impatient to get back to work after a twelve day vacation, the third he had taken with Christine in their four year marriage. He was running late for his first day back, the quick meeting before work had delayed him longer than planned. He expected chaos to greet him, so he wasn't surprised when he stepped foot into the Lab to see three lab techs actually running from Trace to DNA, Jo's desk overflowing with more papers and files than he thought possible, a note taped to Danny's office instructing him to find Jo ASAP. Without seeing a single member of his team, he crossed the hallway to his office. He had to kick a few boxes out of the way to get to his desk and he reached down to see who had requested them. He scowled at learning the request had been made by M. TAYLOR. He didn't remember what had been on his docket just before he left. He hung up his coat and then booted up his computer; he'd figure it out.

He glanced at his cell phone as it buzzed. _Have a good day. I miss Italy! XOXO_

He replied quickly, _Me too. Ti amo. See you later._

His first order of business was to send an email summoning his team for a meeting. He stifled a yawn, still recovering from jet lag. The vacation had been exactly what the couple needed. He had never been to Italy despite his wife's love of the location. They had spent exactly twelve hours doing typical touristy things, visiting famed museums and quizzing each other on matters not thought of since college art history. And then Mac and Christine abandoned the city for a stay in Tuscany, taking long bike rides in the countryside, enjoying delicious meals in tiny villages and making love every night. They had come home refreshed and renewed. Having proven that the two of them were more than happy by themselves, memories of a failed adoption had started to fade well into their past.

"Did you go to Rome?" Lindsay's voice interrupted Mac's thoughts. The team was assembling. Mac shook his head.

"How about Sicily?" pressed Danny. Another shake of his head.

"Venice?" asked Hawkes.

"Florence," Mac informed.

"_Just _Florence?" Flack asked in disdain.

"No, not _just _Florence," Mac said, a smile in his eyes. "We flew there and then we biked in Tuscany. And that's it." He tolerated a bit of ribbing from his team at his lack of detail before he directed the discussion towards business. He sought information, remembered why he had these files in his office, got Adam started on scouring the files, pressed Danny on closing a cold case, asked Flack to work with Philly police on a potential missing persons case, sent Hawkes down to the morgue to discuss an autopsy with Sid, let Lindsay close down a hunch she had with a comparison of several DNA profiles, finally leaving him alone with Jo.

"So, four new cases," he commented. She nodded. "Well, seems like you have them under control."

"You lie like a rug, Mac Taylor," Jo teased. "I don't have anything under control, and you know it. That's why you came in here, and in a matter of fifteen minutes, you have your team working productively on concrete leads. We'll probably close three of them in twenty-four hours."

"Would be nice," he replied seriously.

She smiled tenderly and then, as if it had been on her mind for a while, she asked quietly, "You doing okay?"

"Sure," he said quickly. "Why do you ask?" he countered, easing his way into his desk chair.

"You seemed off in the weeks before you left for Italy," Jo asserted. Mac rolled his eyes. "Okay, you're probably right. It was nothing. I was the one off," she retreated. "Dealing with Ellie and her plans to change colleges every other day is enough to make any mother nutty. Last week, she wanted to transfer because her boyfriend is moving to Idaho. Can you believe that?" Mac arched an eyebrow. "Thankfully, he dumped her. Very dramatic scene, I understand." Mac chuckled a little at her tales of woe. "Christine okay?" she asked suspiciously.

Mac set his coffee onto the desk and extended his legs, amused that his second-in-command wouldn't let it go. There was a time that would have irritated him, and, to be fair, if anyone else had pressed the point, it _would _have irritated him. But Jo was different, she was more perceptive than the others, and she cared about him and Christine more than the others. So she could press all she wanted. But it didn't mean he was going to confide in her. He held his hands up in defeat. "Jo, we're good," he insisted.

"Alright," she said, remaining in his office. They sat in silence for a few moments, and Mac wondered if she really would let it go. Suddenly, Jo took the opportunity to catch Mac up in further detail on their caseload. She spoke of a new technique she had read about, Mac asked to see the journal article, he confided in her about a budget cutback, Jo made some suggestions. The professional rapport was obvious and irreplaceable. It was good to be back at work.

* * *

Sid took a deep breath as he looked at the body on his gurney. He pulled the chart to review and adjusted his glasses. Jane Doe. No age. No address. No name. He frowned and did a preliminary examination. Track marks up and down her arms, even between her toes.

"Sid," Mac's voice boomed as he entered the morgue. "What do you got?"

"First of all, welcome back." Mac nodded in acknowledgement but didn't offer any details. Sid reached out as if to shake Mac's hand, but the boss of the Lab bypassed Sid's gloved hand and instead reached into his lab coat for a pair of his own latex gloves. He held them up towards Sid and shook them. Mac didn't shake gloved hands. "Of course," Sid smiled. "But welcome back anyway."

He apprised the body and then prompted the Medical Examiner. "I'm afraid I don't have much," he answered. Sid stood still a moment, almost in respect, and then he pointed at the track marks. "She likely OD'd," he said bluntly. "The tox panel is pending."

"Foul play?" Mac asked.

"Does heroin count as murder?" Sid asked in response.

"More like suicide," Mac retorted.

"Well, I doubt this will add to your case load. That's my educated guess anyway," Sid repeated, "Although even an amateur would guess at a drug overdose." Mac nodded, his hands clasped in front of him as if he was debating whether to touch the body. After a moment, Mac reached for the girl's arm and looked closely. "Does she have an unusual amount of bruising on her arm?"

Sid hesitated before replying, "It's a lot, but not outside the norm for repeated drug use." Mac nodded, still considering her arm. He tilted his head so he could look on the underside. "I'm waiting for the tox panel to let me know how much she's been using. When we open her up, we'll see what the internal damage is and that might give us more information." Mac nodded as he replaced the arm. Sid shook his head and then said wistfully, "It's a shame really. She could have been a pretty girl."

Mac shook his head. He started to leave the morgue and then turned back to face Sid. Still walking backwards towards the elevator, Mac tossed the gloves in the garbage can and pointed at Sid. He announced with a smile, "Jo told me your daughter moved back home."

"She did," Sid said animatedly, his eyes lighting up. "Oh Mac," he said with a smile. "You don't know how good it was to sit and have dinner with her last night. We just talked and talked like old times." Mac smiled at his friend's excitement.

"How old again?" Mac stopped as he waited for the elevator. Sid approached Mac as he kept talking.

"Nineteen. She's nineteen. And that makes me …" Sid wrinkled his nose and admitted, "Old, I guess."

Mac shook his head and clapped his friend on the shoulder. Time aged them all. "She's going to school, right?" Mac pressed.

Sid chuckled a little but shook his head. "No. I'd hoped she'd enroll somewhere, but right now, she's taking a break. And living off her old man." Mac laughed too and then Sid added in conclusion, "You know kids these days." Mac smiled again and waved at his friend as he stepped into the elevator.

* * *

Becca sat at the counter and watched her dad sway to the music as two steaks browned in the pan. "You still like music from the sixties," she commented, lifting the can of Mountain Dew to her mouth. She was thirsty, but not interested in the carbonated water her father had offered.

"Never stopped," Sid replied seriously, turning to the steaks. He used a fork to pierce one of them and flipped it in the pan, the sizzle and oil flying into the air. Becca rest her hands on her expanding belly and Sid nodded towards her, "How did your appointment go?" Becca shrugged as if to tell him it wasn't his business. His eyes clouded over for the briefest moment, before he turned way from her and practically sashayed across the floor to the beat of the music. One corner of Becca's lips pushed upwards in amusement. He opened the refrigerator and took out a plastic container of mushrooms. "Are you still the only child in the world that likes mushrooms?" he smiled.

Becca shrugged, not responding, the smile already gone. She picked at the threadbare t-shirt that stretched over her stomach and then she kicked her legs out and saw the black toenail on her left foot, the barely-closed over wound on the bottom of her right. Her jeans were stained and didn't fit her well, but her dad didn't even notice. She closed her eyes and took a shaky breath.

Just because she was living here didn't mean things were going well. He was _too _happy, Becca thought. Too excited to get to know her "as the adult she was", too welcoming with a bedroom all to herself, too willing to act like the father he never was by buying her clothes (which she left in the bags), making breakfast (which she left on the table), giving her a bus pass (which she grudgingly accepted when he wasn't looking), making her an OB-GYN appointment (which, she decided, was downright creepy).

But still she took three buses to the Manhattan high rise. He couldn't have known what it would feel like to sit in a waiting room with all the rich, stay-at-home skinny-mini's in their Pea in a Pod maternity clothes. Her sunken eyes and the way she had pulled her long sleeves over the bruises on her arms made her stand out immediately. Not to mention that she didn't even own any maternity clothes, instead settling for stretched out shirts and jeans a size too big that she got from the Salvation Army. She looked like a homeless person. Who was she kidding? She had owned that label so long that she still felt that way.

It had been nearly a disastrous appointment, and she wasn't sure she was going back. She definitely wasn't in the mood to share with her father that she had been lectured by the know-it-all OB-GYN who couldn't _fathom _why it was that she was having her first appointment at seven months pregnant, and why in the world would she decline necessary services like an amnio. Didn't she know she was practically the _definition _of high-risk?

But her dad had found the doctor at a private clinic, and she was willing to see Becca as a favor to him, even though she didn't even hold a welfare card yet. And if Becca _had _been tasked with finding her own doctor, she knew the best she would get would be at the free clinic on the wrong side of town, forcing her to walk past her greatest temptation.

Becca looked at him as he tried to sautée the mushrooms the way she liked them when she was nine – an entire lifetime ago. And she felt sorry for him; he was trying, she knew, and so hard. He had asked only one question about the appointment, and when she declined to answer, he had simply moved on as if it didn't matter. But she knew it meant the world to him.

Becca finally smiled and said, "I still like mushrooms, Dad." He nodded excitedly at her interest and then she added, "My doctor said I need to focus on good nutrition. I'm underweight and …" Sid furrowed his brow and turned to lean on the counter, anxious to hear all the details. She looked at her father and wondered if she could share it all – the blood tests for Hepatitis and HIV, the referral to an actual, honest-to-God shrink, the lecture that she enroll in a real rehab program, the panic at the thought of one more stay at a hospital with bars on the window and double-locked doors, the way her hands couldn't stop shaking when she held the blade against her arm, the way the tiny line of blood calmed her and made her feel human.

She looked at her father, so earnest and interested, as he set out two of his finest plates. A Viking gas stove cooked twenty dollar steaks, a small pan sautéed mushrooms in olive oil and garlic. He poured water, added lemons, and squeezed her shoulders tenderly as he passed by. A week ago, she lived beneath a bridge. She didn't know if she should cry or laugh.

Instead, Becca shrugged and said, "The appointment was fine. I go back in another week."

* * *

Mac lay on his back as he caught his breath. Christine lay perpendicular to him, near his feet, a position she wasn't sure how she had arrived at. She didn't much care, her heart still beating quickly. Before she thought better of it, she announced, "We couldn't do this with a baby." Then she winced. Why had she said that? The first statement in nearly two months about the pain they had experienced together.

"Sure we could," he replied fast, seemingly unaffected by the topic. She was glad for that; she didn't need to walk on eggshells with him. "We'd just have to lock the door," he said, a pointed reference to the fact that their bedroom door currently was open to the living room.

She waited a moment and then decided it was time. Time to discuss it again. "Sometimes I think we should try again." She didn't look at him, but saw him nod in her peripheral vision. It wasn't his opinion, it was acknowledgement of hers. "What do you think?" Mac didn't reply. Instead, he stood up and reached for his pajama bottoms. His hand reached out and tickled her stomach as he passed and she jerked away instinctively. He chuckled a little as he headed for the bathroom. She turned onto her stomach. "You didn't answer me," she called coyly. "What do you think?" she repeated.

"I think I need a shower," he announced.

Christine followed him into the bathroom. She wrapped a towel around her and sat on the closed toilet while he got the water ready. He moved silently, considering his thoughts. As soon as he stepped in, she tucked her hair behind her ears and continued, "I just look at my family and all those kids, and I want to have a big family surrounding us when we get old."

"We're not going to have a big family," Mac said matter-of-factly from inside the shower. "If we were to do it, we're only doing it once. And say it takes a year," he said practically. "I don't think we want to be any older than that for a baby." She twirled her wedding ring around in a circle and nodded. He was right, of course. "Here's my hesitation," he said clearly. He popped his head out and asked, "Do you want to come in here?"

She laughed but agreed. Mac always showered after making love. At first, it had almost offended her, but she soon realized he always wanted to be ready to leave for work at a moment's notice. He didn't always get the luxury to linger in the shower after a page. He preferred a clean body in clean pajamas so he could put on clean clothes before going to work. _All that for dead bodies, _Christine had teased more than once. Mac moved aside for her and she stepped under the hot water. "What's your hesitation?" she asked.

"My hesitation is that we'll do this again and it'll fall through. The last thing I want is you and I to dedicate another year to this as if it's the only thing that matters. And if it falls through again – and it can," he emphasized. "If it falls through, I want us to just accept our lives and move on and not regret going through it." She nodded; she agreed. The hot water slid down her face and soaked her hair. She pushed it back from her eyes and nodded confidently. She was sure they could do that, couldn't they? Just one more time and then … He interrupted her thoughts softly, "But I'm still not sure." She blinked the water out of her eyes and then tilted her head, trying to understand him. Mac was always thoughtful, yet decisive. He wasn't one to contemplate a matter for months on end, so she was surprised, frankly, that he was hesitating.

"But don't you –" She moved out of the shower stream so she could see him without the water filling her eyes.

"Here's the thing Chris," he interrupted, standing face to face in front of her. The hot shower pelted his chest and ran down his body in rivulets. "Going through this process makes us feel like we're missing something. Like we _need _a child to be a family." She breathed out as she heard what he was saying. He reached for her hands. "And more than anything, I want to feel – and I want you to feel – that if it were just you and me on a desert island, our lives would be complete." He blinked and then said somewhat bashfully, "And I think, after Italy, I feel that way again."

She smiled as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I love you, Mac Taylor."

* * *

Christine sat at her regular seat at the long dining room table and tried to control her breathing. Last night's conversation meant they were putting all thoughts of babies on permanent hold. Mac made sense. He was logical and practical. and he understood what the stress would do to the next year of their lives. And it might not work out anyway. But he also spoke from the heart. He wanted the life they used to have; the one they planned for when they got married; the one that meant they could travel when and where they wanted, eat at restaurants that didn't serve hot dogs, make love when they were in the mood, sleep when they were tired. And hearing him talk that way brought it all back for her. They used to have shared dreams about the future, and those dreams had not included another member of their family. She missed those dreams.

So why did this bombshell at their Sunday afternoon dinner make her question everything all over again?

Mac's hand slipped into hers from beneath the table and he squeezed. She squeezed back. The topic bothered him too. She could barely breathe, but nobody else spoke as their eighteen year old niece continued. "The baby's due in November. And before anyone asks, I'm planning to keep it." Christine's breath hitched. Out of the side of her eyes, she saw Mac look at her; he was checking that she was okay. She clenched her jaw and finally dared to peek at her brother. Sam was looking at his hands in his lap; His wife, Emily's eyes were full of tears. Emily stole a quick glance at Christine but when they made eye contact, her gaze flitted back to her daughter. Christine looked at Mac. He was chewing his bottom lip.

After dinner, Emily and Sam and the family left early while Christine helped in the kitchen with her mother. Nobody spoke, the mood solemn and morose. Finally, her mother said, "She could change her mind, you know."

"In what way?" Christine asked wearily.

"Maybe she'll want someone to raise her child. Maybe she would ask you and M –"

"Mama," Christine interrupted. "Don't meddle in that," she ordered quietly. Her mother blinked. "Please, Mama. This is hard on Sam and Emily. This is hard on Laura. And Mac and I will not go down that road with our own family."

Her mother nodded, surprised at Christine's statement. "But don't –"

"Mama," Christine said sharply as Mac entered the kitchen. "Don't go there."

Mac stood behind Christine and reached up to massage her shoulders. She reached up with soapy hands and squeezed his. He kissed the top of her head and whispered, "Let's go home."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: I've dropped a few hints in the first two chapters about Mac's secret. Spelling it out in this chapter. Please don't flame me! I'm new here. ha ha ha ... It's just something I'm trying. Thanks for your support! I'm honored to get your reviews!

* * *

**_Chapter Three_**

Mac stared at the toxicology panel that Sid had brought him a few days ago, and he frowned. If these results were correct, they were looking at a narcotic that was five hundred times more powerful than regular street heroin. It would be one of the most powerful street drugs he had ever encountered, instantly and irresistibly addictive. A user would inevitably overdose. A quick meeting with Sid had informed him that two other deaths looked suspicious. This prompted Mac to order further testing on the bodies, additional analysis of tissue samples, and an in-depth profile of the new drug. Sid was on it in an instant, but the results took time, and they were still waiting.

Mac tapped his fingers on the sheet of paper containing far too little information. His eyes moved to the file folder with the preliminary autopsy results. He opened it and looked at the pictures of the Jane Doe. Heavy bruising and track marks between her toes signaled heavy use; she wasn't a first time user. So what did that mean? Had she made a mistake with the dose? Had the relentless craving convinced her to try just a little bit more just this one time? Or had she been tricked?

Like other street-people, she had tuberculosis, with some evidence that she had been treated with a full cocktail of medications. She also had broken an arm recently, probably within the last nine to twelve months. It had healed properly. She had seen a doctor then too. So what did that mean? Had her life gone so far downhill in nine months? Had she lived in a comfortable home with a mom and dad with insurance? If so, why wasn't there a missing persons report on her?

It gnawed at him. He and Sid had quipped about suicide versus murder, but the heavy questions without answers weighed on his mind. Did this girl overdose? Had she been misled about the strength of the drug? Was it pure? Had it been tampered with? Was there a sinister motive? Was someone _trying _to kill people with this?

Was it murder?

* * *

Sid poured the amber liquid over the ice cubes and listened to the seductive cracking of the ice. He needed that drink at night to settle him down, especially when his morgue was filling up with bodies that had overdosed on heroin. By the end of the day, he had determined that at least two more young people had succumbed to the drug. Unlike their first body, these two had been quickly identified based on matching DNA samples from Missing Persons reports. Both were in their late teens, just kids. The boy had HIV, the girl had been seven months pregnant. Just like his dear Becca.

Mac had sighed wearily at the news and then clenched his jaw in silent determination. That had always been how Mac worked. He learned about a problem and he decided it needed to be solved and so he worked the evidence piece by piece, little by little, with nary a distraction until he resolved it. He was motivated by injustice and that only served to fuel his determined quest for answers. Sid suspected that Mac felt things deeply but was simply able to compartmentalize better than most, a useful skill indeed, and one that Sid lacked and coveted.

Sid worked with the dead and their families and acknowledged openly that things were always more complicated – more human. But he hadn't been open about his daughter, embarrassed that the claws of addiction, the elusive chase of the dragon, had found _his _family. Heroin had taken her from her mother's home and deposited her firmly in the streets. The absent years were a pointed reminder that Sid had not only failed as a husband but he had failed – in absolutely every meaningful way – as a father. Her return to his apartment gave him a second chance, the only chance he would ever have, at restoring their relationship.

Except that his pregnant daughter had left the house in a fit of rage at Sid's brief, and completely reasonable, questions about the future. She needed a job, he said quietly, if she was going to support a baby. Yes, she could live there, even rent-free, and with his grandchild too, but she needed to work. Or go to school. Or do something productive towards a future. And where, pray tell, was the father in all this?

Her anger had startled him and reminded him that the diagnosis of bipolar disorder at sixteen had not been made by a quack. He, of course, had questioned his ex-wife's judgment at the need for such an evaluation in a teenager, but at the time he had questioned everything she did on the parenting front. He had refused to accept the diagnosis, but his ex-wife had pointed out that he had refused to spend time with his daughter too. He had no perspective – and therefore no standing – to opine on the mental health of his daughter.

He knew now that she had been right. He had missed the chance to parent and nurture his Becca, and perhaps a different environment would have kept her clean, sober and medicated. But the past was in the past and now they were treading in dangerous waters, with her refusing mental health treatment out of fear for her unborn child. Sid didn't know enough about the treatment options, but he knew enough that his daughter would need intervention and help to remain both sober and mentally stable to raise a child.

It would be difficult in the best of circumstances. It would be impossible if his daughter didn't return home. Sid looked at the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room and hated that it was now, by all accounts, the middle of the night. It was raining steadily, turning the warm spring day into a bitterly cold night for those unlucky enough to be outside. He ran his hands over his face, they were shaking. He felt light-headed, the whisky had given him a buzz that dulled his feelings and his judgment.

He rest his hand on the tattered cover of the spiral notebook. She hadn't taken it, so a part of him told him that she would return home. Her most treasured possession, containing intimate details of her life, was here – still unread by her father. The lightning flashed just outside his window, and Sid made a decision. He opened the notebook.

As he read, he clenched his jaw and tilted his head. It was so much worse than he could even imagine, so he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the words would disappear. When he opened them, they were still there. He didn't _want _to know these things, but now he did. His Becca had lived a life on the streets and her life was no better than the kids in his morgue. She was just luckier. For now.

So now what? He was aware that he was making a risky choice as he stood up and reached for his raincoat. But Becca was his only daughter and she was _not _going to spend a night in the rain on the streets when she could sleep in her bed. She would not end up in his morgue. She would not.

He was her father, and he was going to find her.

* * *

Mac sat in his office and glanced at his watch. Christine was already at her parents' home; he had only seven minutes before he needed to leave, Mac having timed the walk to Penn Station precisely. He stood up, shut the file folder and deposited it into his briefcase. He closed down his laptop and packed that as well. The Lab, a 24 X 7 operation, was still humming, but his regular CSI's were mostly at home. This was why Mac liked to work on Sundays; he rarely was bothered.

Today, Mac was looking forward to an evening with his in-laws. The family had settled a bit from the shock of their niece's news at being pregnant. He would remember to congratulate her, he told himself, and Christine had talked with her sister-in-law during the week who had mentioned, with a tiny bit of excitement, that she would be a grandmother before the holidays. A baby is a blessing, Mac had heard Christine say, and Laura needs to know everyone supports her. Although it was cruel irony for a woman who wanted to be a mother desperately, Christine's care and concern were genuine.

More often than not, the train ride to Long Island relaxed him and made him feel as if he were more than a cop. He was a real human being, with a real family who cared about him, a family who would even hold dinner for him if the train was late. He didn't like to be late, though, which was why he frowned a little when Sid opened Mac's door and entered.

Mac glanced sideways, but his focus was on the papers on his desk as he continued to sort those he would take with him. "What are you doing here, Sid? It's Sunday."

"Do you have a second?" the Medical Examiner asked.

"Barely," Mac answered honestly, still not attentive to his friend. "I'm trying to catch the train to Long Island." He looked up now. "We're having dinner at …." His voice slowed and trailed off as he stared at Sid, a blue-gray bruise surrounding his swollen left eye. "What happened to your face, Sid?" he asked calmly, walking towards him.

"Oh it's nothing," Sid assured him hurriedly, embarrassed. "It's really not … much of anything."

Mac tilted his head to look at him carefully. "You look like you've gone twenty rounds." He reached for Sid's right hand and arched an eyebrow when he saw bruised knuckles. "You were in a _fight_?" Mac asked incredulously, expecting answers.

Sid pulled his hand back and shook his head, clearly embarrassed. "It's … actually a personal matter and I, uh, I just wanted your advice." Mac frowned. _A personal matter? "_It's … it's just … it's my daughter." Mac creased his forehead. _His daughter? _"She's missing, and I went looking for her and ran into … some people I thought might know her. Let's just say I wasn't welcome." Mac placed his hands on his hips, a look of confusion passing across his face. _She's missing?_ "Anyway, I shouldn't be bothering you on a Sunday. She'll turn up." _She'll turn up? And someone hit Sid? _His friend started to turn away, hesitating in his steps.

"For the love of God, Sid," Mac said softly, interrupting his friend's pace. Sid turned and looked at Mac, desperation in his eyes. "Sit down," Mac pleaded gently, gesturing to the chair. "What happened?" he asked sympathetically, sitting near him. "Tell me what's going on."

* * *

Mac hesitated a moment, glancing at the clock on his dashboard and then looking at the man in the passenger seat. The young woman – no more than a child really – had been missing for twenty hours. She was pregnant. She was a recovering addict. She associated with criminals. When it came to her safety, every minute counted.

When the light didn't change quickly enough, Mac reached over to turn on the red and blues. The sound of the siren pierced the air, and cars struggled to part to make a clear path. Impatiently, Mac's eyes flitted to the photograph in Sid's hand as he waited. It was a flattering likeness of the girl, a school photograph from a few years ago. Mac suspected she looked nothing like the innocent child whose eyes stared back at the camera. But even then, Mac noticed, there were signs. Her eyes were lined in dark kohl and her lipstick was just a little too dark. She neither smiled nor scowled – her expression was one of disinterest. He wondered if Sid saw it too.

"How sure are you that she'll be here?" Mac asked, wondering if he should be bringing in his colleagues from Missing Persons. He knew, though, that unless he called in a favor – which he was more than happy to do for his friend – they wouldn't "waste time" on a run-away with a drug problem, particularly one missing for less than a day. Sid didn't answer, so Mac made a snap decision; if this didn't work out, his next stop – with Sid in the car – would be the ninth floor of One Police Plaza.

Mac swerved quickly through the traffic and Sid gripped the passenger door. Mac suspected his friend's anxiety level, however, had more to do with his missing daughter than Mac's driving. The neighborhood got seedier and more isolated, but Mac knew the people were just holed up behind boarded windows. Most of them scurried away at the first sign of police, and Mac wondered whether Becca would do the same. Mac stopped the siren a block away from the description of the warehouse Sid had give him. A sympathetic witness to Sid's unfortunate run-in with ex-boyfriend #2 / potential father of unborn child had finally described the place. Mac had called a buddy in Narcotics who was willing to give an address but was kind enough to mind his own business.

Mac stopped the Avalanche in front of the boarded up warehouse, but he left the police light flashing. He looked around at the deserted location and wondered if he should have brought Flack with him. His friend in the front seat was now a safety concern for Mac, and Mac quickly weighed whether Sid was better off waiting in the vehicle or walking into his daughter's hell. Mac picked the truck. Sid began to open the door. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Mac said quietly, reaching for his friend's arm. "You're _not _going in there." His voice was authoritative, hiding the fact that Mac had just debated the options in his head.

"Mac, she's my daughter."

Sid's voice was helpless and forlorn and it gave Mac pause. But he glanced around his surroundings; the sun was still up; there was a radio in the car and keys that Sid could use if he had to. Mac was unmoved, and he replied quietly, "I know she is. That's why we're here." He gripped his friend's shoulder and said, "Trust me on this Sid. The first place you went gave you a black eye. Let me handle this stop." Sid blinked as the meaning behind Mac's words took form in his head. "It won't take me long," he reassured. "I'll go in there, and I'll bring her out so you can take her home."

Sid nodded and said, "But I'll know right away who she is and …"

"Sid," Mac interrupted. Mac pleaded, "Just wait here." Sid swallowed and then nodded. Mac stepped out of the Avalanche, his hand on his weapon, his badge gleaming from his pants. He scanned the street, looking for danger. Just before shutting the door, Mac smiled at his friend and added lightly, "Don't worry. I'll find her."

He opened the back of the vehicle and pulled out a Kevlar vest and put it on. Intentionally, he avoided Sid's eyes. He glanced around him once again and, satisfied that he saw nothing, he jogged across the street and pushed open the broken door of the abandoned warehouse. "NYPD!" he called out slowly. "I'm here for Becca." He walked through the front room and saw two teenagers sleeping on dirty blankets. "Where's Becca?" he asked. One opened an eye and pointed towards the back. The other didn't move. Mac saw needles and drug paraphernalia scattered on the floor but he ignored them. There was no technicality here; He didn't have a warrant or probable cause.

He walked slowly into the second room, his hand still on his weapon. "I'm here for Becca. NYPD. Becca?" he called. He looked around. Two girls laying on dirty newspapers simply turned away from Mac. A boy hustled out the back door, leaving behind a pregnant girl. She briefly met his gaze and then looked out the window. "Becca," he said more as a statement. Mac approached her and crouched in front of her. "Are you Becca?" he asked quietly. Her head lolled back against the wall; she was clearly high. "I'm a friend of your dad's," he said a bit louder. She sighed and utilized some effort to meet his gaze. "My name is Mac," he said quietly, placing his hand on her cheek and forcing her to stay with him. She slowly nodded, her mouth open a bit.

Mac pushed away the needles on the floor beside her and struggled to stand and pull her dead weight up at the same time. "Okay," Mac whispered, releasing her gently. "Let's try this again." This time, he bent his knees and reached under her arms and lifted her up as if he was holding a three year old. "Can you walk?" he asked. She swayed as he placed her on her feet, and she would have fallen had Mac not had a firm grip on her arm. He exhaled and braced himself for her weight and he cradled her, his arm under her knees. She was lighter than he expected for a pregnant woman. She murmured something. "Becca," he whispered as he began to carry her out the building. "I'm taking you outside. Your dad's in my truck."

"I'm … I'm … I can't …I tried to stay clean," she said quietly, trying to push Mac away. "For the baby. Tell him I tried."

"You can tell him yourself," Mac said.

"He'll hate me," she breathed.

"No, no, no," Mac said. "He loves you," he said quietly. Mac opened the front door and bright sunlight greeted them. Becca squinted and turned her head into Mac's neck. Sid was out the front door of the vehicle, rushing to meet them before Mac could say anything to stop him. Mac eased her into the backseat and Sid crawled in beside her. Mac had to turn away as he saw Sid's tears fall onto Becca's face. The father gently stroked her cheek. As Mac started to drive, he heard Sid whisper that all was fine, all was okay, she would be fine, the baby too.

* * *

Sid was twenty feet away from Mac, his ex-wife was beside him. Mac had nothing more to contribute; he had done his duty. He had helped his friend find his daughter and he had brought her safely to the hospital. Now, he stood in the periphery, waiting for Sid to excuse him. Mac had called Christine to beg off the family dinner. He didn't go into detail, calling it an "emergency." She said she understood, but no doubt she was upset.

Mac stuffed his hands in his pockets and distractedly read the posts on the hospital Wellness Board. Announcements for WeightWatchers meetings, prenatal yoga classes, bipolar disorder support groups, meetings for friends of Bill W., smoking cessation groups, confession times with the hospital chaplain.

He reached for his phone when he felt it vibrate. Christine's text was short and to-the-point: _Leaving mom's place now. _No playful banter or questions about his evening. That meant she was pissed. He replied quickly: _Drive safe. Love you._ She didn't reply. Mac rubbed at his forehead, he could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, and he wondered if he was sick. More likely, a tension headache that would bother him until he found some Tylenol.

He stopped in the men's room and looked at the contents of the vending machine. He frowned. He could buy three different kinds of condoms, four sizes of Band-Aids and liquid or tablet forms of Pepto-Bismol, but he couldn't get any Tylenol or Excedrin or Advil or Alleve. He wondered whether he could ask for some at the desk or if he would need to hand over his insurance card and pay a $75 co-pay for the pain reliever.

He moved back into the hallway and wondered why this evening stressed him out so much. He leaned against the wall beside the bulletin board and considered his options. He thought about heading home. He could get there before Christine did. See if there was a good movie on TV. Maybe he'd chill a bottle of wine for her, make something stronger for himself. He shook his head and exhaled. _Come on, Mac,_ he thought. _Keep it together. You only missed dinner. She'll get over it._

Impulsively, Mac reached into his pocket for a pen. He noted the time on his watch and glanced at the bulletin board again. He scribbled on the palm of his hand. _Rm M-210, 7:30._ He had just enough time to check the hospital gift shop for that Tylenol before attending.

* * *

It was nearing nine before Mac entered the home. Christine was perched on the sofa, a glass of white wine on the coffee table, an episode of _House Hunters _on the television. She didn't move to greet him. Mac leaned over the sofa to kiss her cheek, one arm behind his back. He received a glare in return. "I'm sorry," he said. She nodded subtly. From behind his back, he pulled out two red carnations. "Do you forgive me?" he asked, his eyes sparkling.

"Did you get those at the hospital gift shop?" she retorted. She reached for them and smelled them. Not surprisingly, there was no scent. "No plant? No Mylar balloon that says 'Get Well Soon'?"

"The plants didn't look good," he replied, teasing her. "And the balloons were way too big for the subway," he said. She rolled her eyes, her tough exterior cracking. Mac reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out a small bag of Swedish fish candy and handed it to her. "Do you forgive me now?" he asked seriously.

She laughed out loud and finally stood up. "You sit down, you. I'll fix you a plate of something. And I hope you caught a bad guy," she commented, kissing him quickly on the lips. Mac sat at the sofa as he waited for the food. He crossed his legs, resting an ankle on his knee and resting his head against his hand, his elbow on the armrest. He closed his eyes, the headache still plaguing him. "Hey," Christine said quietly, shaking his shoulder. Mac's eyes snapped open instantly. "You okay?" she asked tenderly, holding a plate.

"Yeah," Mac said, accepting the plate and stifling a yawn. "It's just been … one of those days. And I have a little headache." Christine sat beside him and asked him about his day. Like always, Mac left out salient details, but he did recount for her how he had dropped Sid and his daughter at Trinity. The girl was high, and even though Sid was a medical doctor himself, he really was not qualified to detox a pregnant girl in his apartment. The girl had protested heartily at the first indication she was going to a hospital and her emotions vacillated from remorse to despair to outright anger. Sid's daughter was hysterically furious when Mac had left the ER and was declining all forms of treatment. Mac still didn't stay, sensing it was a personal family matter and besides, he had no standing to intervene anymore.

"That was a nice thing you did," Christine commented. That was her apology for giving him hell about missing dinner. She rest her hand on his leg and Mac nodded. "What happens next?"

"Sid was talking rehab, but there's only so much he can do to force it. His ex-wife says she needs the psych ward. And Becca wants to walk out tonight."

Christine exhaled and shook her head. "That's tough," she commented quietly.

"How was Laura?" Mac asked suddenly, referring to their niece and anxious to change the subject.

Christine reached for her wine and sipped at it before replying. "My brother said that she's thinking about giving the baby up for adoption." Mac nodded slowly. "He hinted, but he didn't say anything else."

"Hinted at what?" Mac asked warily.

"He didn't ask me outright but I think he was wondering if we would be open to adopting the baby." Mac didn't respond. "I don't even know if we'd say yes if they _did _ask. I mean it's a little different that Laura's in our family but it's not _that _different from the open adoption we were thinking about."

Mac exhaled and then rubbed a hand over his face. "Chrissy," he said quietly. She waited. He swallowed and then shook his head. "I'm not going to do that," he said.

She looked out the window and clenched her jaw. Then she said in a tight voice. "Can I ask why? Because to me this seems like the ideal choice. We don't have to worry about the family medical history because we know it. And we know she's getting good prenatal care. And we don't have to think about who gets adoption visits and we don't have to worry for nine months if she's going to reject us at the last minute and …"

"Yes, we do," Mac interrupted firmly. "She could still change her mind and then you and I spend the rest of our lives thinking about how that little person at your parents' dinner table was almost ours." Christine placed a hand over her mouth. Mac set his plate on the coffee table and dropped his fork with a clatter. He leaned back on the sofa and added, almost angrily, "And you forget something else. I was _married_ to a birth mother." Christine breathed out slowly at Mac's emotion. "She _never _got over it." He paused and then emphasized, "_Never_, Christine."

"You're right," she said sadly. Mac reached for her hand and brushed his thumb over the top. He meant what he said, but he was half-apologizing for upsetting her. "I think I still want a baby, though," she said. Mac clenched his jaw and he looked at the ceiling. His eyes went back to the plate of food in front of him, but he didn't reply. When the silence lingered a little too long, Christine asked hesitantly, "What do you think about that?"

Mac thought of Sid's fear as Mac rushed his daughter to the car and Sid's anguish as he realized the pregnant daughter was high and Sid's despair when she was admitted to the hospital for detox. He thought of his own weaknesses. He could run into abandoned warehouses, pull out a junkie and save her life, yet he was scribbling meeting notices in the palm of his hand because he had a goddamn headache. He ran a hand through his hair and stood up. "What do you think?" she repeated, the wine shimmering on her lips, distracting him. She wanted a baby, more than anything, and all he wanted was the wine.

Mac turned away and walked to the window. He looked out and tried to control his breathing. He felt hot all over and when he looked down at his hands, they trembled. He released a shaky breath. After a second, he simply replied, "I can't talk about it any more tonight."

* * *

Mac sat at the diner, sipping at a Coke while he waited, and he thought about Christine. At first, it had been simple. _No, no, I'm on call. _Or, _No thanks, I have to get up early. _Or, _Not until I've eaten something. _But the night he had shown up at her restaurant, armed with sacks of food to prepare a late night dinner changed things. She welcomed him into her kitchen. Her smile sparkled. He laughed. The music played. He cut tomatoes, she grated cheese. She filled the wine glasses and handed one to him. She held hers high, expecting to toast the moment. They clanked glasses. She sipped. He stopped. _I don't drink_, he said. He waited for rejection. Instead, her head tilted, her eyebrows furrowed. She nodded. _Does it bother you when I do? _A quick shake of the head. Then she smiled again. She didn't care.

Of course that was only the first conversation. Saying you don't drink is different than admitting alcoholism and eventually, a relationship can only go so far if one can't be honest about essential topics like that. But Christine was strong and she had faith in him and so she was willing to take the risk. Still, entering a relationship sober also meant it was hard for her to understand his struggle. He didn't know what was different about today that triggered his mini-meltdown. He didn't know why tonight he needed his sponsor more than his wife. He only knew he was powerless when it came to alcohol and denial and pride were his greatest enemies.

Mac looked up when the bell on the door chimed. His sponsor looked around the room and Mac nodded when they made eye contact. The younger man hurried over and sat across from him. "What's up Mac? I'm glad you called."


	4. Chapter 4

**_Chapter Four_**

The whole point was to be anonymous, so he never talked about it. His wife knew he went, but she _never_ asked about it. Once in a while, _he _brought it up and she would nod and squeeze his arm and tell him she was glad he did it. It was in stark contrast to Claire who had insisted on it, going so far as to keep tabs on how many times a week he went. If it was less than twice per week, she would get irritable and accuse him of not taking it seriously, of not understanding the impact it had on her. If it was more than four times a week, she got nervous and began to distrust him.

It had never been easy between him and Claire, and there were times he was surprised they made it. But he had always loved her, and even in the darkest moments, she had known that. She had been forgiving and patient, even to her detriment. Things had always been easier with Christine. She was more even-keeled, even at her worst; she never questioned him about his whereabouts when he was late or went through the garbage to count the empties or sipped from his orange juice in the morning just to "make sure". But to be fair, Claire and Christine had experienced two different sides of the same man, and it was obvious which woman got the better shake.

There were times that life seemed so far in the past that maybe he didn't need to go anymore. He didn't feel the temptation like he used to. He didn't think about it. But that was dangerous thinking and he had been reminded this week that temptation was only one hard day away. So every Wednesday, at 7:30 in the evening – plus whenever he needed it – Mac eased his body into a wooden folding chair in the basement of the Presbyterian church eleven blocks from his office. He didn't talk much, but he paid attention. He took what he needed and left the rest, and he liked how he felt when he left.

In general, the same group of people showed up each week. Every few weeks, someone new attended. Sometimes Mac recognized colleagues from the Department, and once Mac had even seen a direct report in attendance. They had made eye contact, and Mac watched the young man's eyes flit away. He never returned, and Mac never spoke of it.

But it was unusual for Mac to see an old friend two rows up and to his right, tapping his foot nervously. His hands shook, and Mac recognized the desperation falling off him. So, Mac stood up and moved to sit beside him. He rest his hand on his friend's shoulder. His friend looked over, and his jaw dropped in stunned surprise. "Mac," he breathed.

"How are you?" Mac asked with a smile.

His friend shook his head. "I don't know what I'm doing here. I should … Maybe I should go."

"I think you should stay," Mac said.

* * *

Christine lay in bed alone, her eyes wide open. Mac wasn't home, having sent a text about going to a meeting. That was hours ago and just when it was time to start calling it late, he had sent another text saying he had a one-on-one meeting with a guy from the meeting. He'd be home within the hour, he promised. He just had to do this.

Christine was proud of Mac for never giving up. But the reality of what it took for him to remain sober really hadn't hit her until this week. She had never seen him so edgy, so anxious, and had never realized how crucial the meetings were to his continued sobriety. She just thought it was something he did. Some people went to therapy, some people went to confession, he went to meetings. He was regaining control, she noticed that and was relieved quite frankly, but his efforts excluded her. The meetings were _so _anonymous that she was too scared to ask about them, she didn't really know what happened there, and this week, he had gone _a lot. _

She tried to think back to the few times she had spent with him when he was her brother's partner. When had it become a problem? She did remember, vividly, a time at Myrtle Beach when he and Stan had gotten shit-faced drunk at a party. Claire had been upset at that, declining the beer Christine offered, informing her wryly that she knew Mac would never be in a position to drive back to their hotel room. She had muttered under her breath to Christine, _Welcome to my world. _But that was it, the only sign of a problem that Christine had really ever witnessed, and she had shaken it off as a complaint from an irritated wife. He and Stan worked hard; they could play hard too. Plus, all she had _ever _heard from her brother was that Mac was an irreplaceable partner, a top-notch investigator, a rising star in the NYPD. But Stan had his own issues with alcohol. He wasn't an alcoholic or anything, she was quick to remind herself, but he did drink a hell of a lot.

Her dad had asked her once, "Doesn't Mac drink?"

"Why don't you ask him," she snapped, illogically irritated. _How was she supposed to answer that?_ she wondered. But Mac showed her how to answer when he replied to her father's question two weeks later. _Nope, I don't drink._ Her husband was confident, self-assured and as far as she knew, that was all he ever said on the matter to anyone in her family.

She heard the key in the door and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was never completely at ease when he wasn't home, especially when she didn't really know where he was or what he was doing. She didn't ask, though, telling herself that she trusted him. And she did trust him; he had never given her reason to question him. She still wondered how he passed his time, though. She wondered what he would tell her if she _did _ask. She guessed it might be the only issue between them that they didn't talk about. Irony indeed when she guessed it was the biggest.

He entered their bedroom, trying not to wake her. "Hey," she said softly.

"You're up," he observed, turning on the lamp near the bed. He looked tired, Christine thought. He was already unbuckling his belt.

"How'd your night go?" she asked.

Mac was vague. "Fine."

She nodded and chewed her lip. After a moment, she asked, "What do you talk about?"

He turned towards her and tilted his head. He swallowed and then he said, "I don't talk much. I mostly listen." She tugged at the diamond earring in her ear and nodded. He wasn't confiding in her. He unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it in the hamper, followed by his t-shirt. When he was shirtless, he sat on the edge of the bed. He reached for her hand and said, "I'm sorry."

She laughed. "What are you sorry for? You didn't do anything." She paused before adding, "That I know about."

He chuckled a little and leaned back on the bed. He kicked his shoes onto the floor as he lay beside her. He turned to his side to face her. "I'm sorry I haven't seen you this week." She turned into him and squeezed his hand. "You deserve better," he said apologetically.

"Well, I want you," she said.

"I'm a lucky guy," he smiled. He leaned forward and kissed her and then he rest his head on his hand, his elbow bent. He rest his other hand on her hip and smiled.

"Can I ask you something?" she asked haltingly.

"You can ask me anything," Mac replied, his eyes flitting to the wall. She knew he was trying, but she could tell he hoped she didn't press him for details.

She waited until he looked back at her and then she asked exactly what she _hadn't _been thinking about. "Do you think we could swing a little vacation this summer?"

Mac laughed out loud. "_Another _one? We just went to Italy." She smiled as he leaned over and kissed her, resting his chest across hers. He caressed her cheek with his thumb. "Is that your way of avoiding the issue?" he asked, his eyes serious. His hand lingered on her cheek and he held her gaze.

She kissed his lips again and replied, "No." He arched an eyebrow and dared her to tell him the truth. "Maybe," she finally said. He nodded, but frowned. "I guess it's my way of saying I don't understand what you're going through."

He swallowed and nodded. He lay on his back again and rest an arm over his eyes. He was tired. His breaths were even and they slowed. Christine assumed he was asleep, dress pants and all. She would let him sleep that way. She turned the lamp off and adjusted the pillows so she could sleep right next to him. Like an agile cat, she pushed her head under his arm and arranged her body so he was holding her. She was nearing sleep herself when she heard him reply, "I'm okay, Chris." His hold on her tightened and he said, "But let's try to find a weekend to get away."

* * *

Mac was in deep slumber when he felt Christine's hand on his shoulder, and it startled him. He sat up with a start and squeezed the inside corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, trying to shake the sleep. "Hey," she whispered, leaning against the kitchen counter. Mac scooted back from the kitchen table and smiled sheepishly. "So what? You got up in the middle of the night?" she chided, nodding at the papers and photographs on the table. He was still wearing his dress pants from the day before, but he was barefoot and wearing an old blue t-shirt.

"I slept most of the night," Mac asserted, leaning over to place the photos discretely into a file folder. "I just got up early." She wrinkled her nose at him and turned to start preparing coffee. Mac yawned and turned his head from side to side, stretching a little.

"Tough case, huh?" she asked, inviting him to confide in her. She reached for the coffee can on the counter and frowned when she realized it was empty.

"Little bit," he acknowledged, standing up to fill Christine's mug with the coffee that was sitting in the pot. It was still slightly warm, Mac having prepared it two hours ago. "Here," he said, placing it in the microwave to heat up fully. Christine tossed the empty can into the recycling bin and Mac said, "I'll pick some up on the way home." She nodded and squeezed his arm. She sat at the kitchen table and looked at the mess of papers, organized in some way that made sense only to Mac. He waited out the remaining thirty seconds for her coffee and then he handed her the mug and sat across from her.

She waited for him to talk about his case. It was strange, really. When they had first started dating, Christine had been frustrated at his lack of disclosure, his unwillingness to share, his stoicism and stubbornness. But once that bridge had been crossed, she realized that, save for a few things that he kept from her, he was really quite astute at communication. She told him everything, her deepest secrets and fears, her darkest feelings. Mac accepted her as she was, and then, in turn, confided in her.

Christine knew he was conflicted about the work he did. His life's calling was to be a police officer. He was tenacious and analytical and intelligent and had enjoyed notable success in his career. But that life was hard and cold and sometimes, he told Christine, he yearned for a kinder, gentler life. In his imaginary retirement, he would wake up in a house with a view of the ocean and he would walk the beach as the sun rose. They would sit on the porch and read books. They would meander through antique shops. They would alternate between cooking good meals and eating gourmet food in tiny restaurants. They would linger in bed and sip coffee in the morning while they read the paper. They had taken vacations like that and Christine thought she had never seen Mac happier.

She looked at her husband. He was already seated at the table, his brow furrowed in concentration as he studied a report entitled CHEMICAL ANALYSIS. He was good for her, yes. But she was good for him too. She adjusted in her chair and cupped the mug in her hand. He glanced at her and then back down. When he felt her stare, he looked up at her again. She prompted, "Tell me about your case."

He chuckled a little but shook his head and said, "Trust me. Your life will be complete if you never hear a word about this." It was a half-hearted reply, though, because when Mac spent hours at the kitchen table before a full day at the office, Christine would demand to know why. "Okay," he said, staving off the inevitable follow-up. "We have young people overdosing on a new synthetic drug." Christine shook her head. "That's really it," Mac said with a shrug. "And we're trying to figure out where they're getting it."

"So how do you do that?" she asked, sipping her coffee.

He nodded towards the paper in front of him. "Well, Adam analyzed the chemical components of the drug and Lindsay tracked unusually high quantities of those same chemicals to a university lab. At a medical school, if you can believe that."

"Sounds like a good lead," she commented.

Mac commented in a voice that told her it wasn't, "I _thought _so." His hand rest on a sheet of notebook paper with three names scribbled on it in red pen: CHAD DAWSON, LYDIA MCENTIRE, DAVIS WATT. He continued, "So far, the professors check out. I've got these three kids who had access to the chemicals, but we can't find a single connection among our victims to each other or to any of these guys."

She reached for the file folder but left it closed. She tapped her fingers on the front and then asked, "So what were you doing this morning?"

"Double-checking the evidence to see if we missed anything." Christine waited for Mac's inevitable statement. "We didn't."

She smiled. "Now what?"

"Now I figure out which one of these kids is lying," Mac said matter-of-factly.

* * *

Mac felt surprisingly refreshed when he joined Sid, the bruise on his eye now fading. "How's Becca?" Mac asked his friend before they started business.

Sid nodded slowly. "We're taking it one day at a time. Her mother found a program that specializes in both mental health and substance abuse treatment." Mac nodded. "She's been there a week and …" Sid exhaled and said, "She's hanging in there. I saw her yesterday and she seemed …" He hesitated before saying, "She seemed healthier to me. The color is returning to her cheeks and she was in good spirits. But," he added. "She hates it, and she hates being there." He paused a moment before saying, "Thank you, Mac. For what you did."

Mac shook it off. He considered broaching the other topic, the one that weighed heavily on his mind, but he didn't know what to say. So, he said nothing and decided he would wait for Sid to bring it up.

Sid didn't. Instead, he nodded at the body. "We have another victim." Mac frowned but nodded, already looking at the male victim carefully. "As you know, they were found in different places in the city, no obvious connection among them." Mac nodded; he already knew this. "But, I found the first commonality among our victims."

Mac's head lifted; Sid had his attention. "This is our second victim with HIV. And," Sid said, handing Mac two pieces of paper. "I pulled the mandatory HIV reports from the Department of Health."

"Doctors are required to report certain communicable diseases," Mac said with a smile. "Let me guess … they were reported by the same doctor."

"Bingo," Sid said, pointing out the line. Mac's smiled faded fast. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Mac said quickly, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Good job, Sid. This is a great lead."

* * *

Mac looked up as the bell on the door rang, announcing her arrival. The red-haired woman smiled broadly as she entered the café and saw Mac sitting at the table. He stood up as she approached and she extended her arms for a hug. Mac pulled her close to him in a warm one-armed embrace. "It's good to see you," he said.

"It's been years," Dr. Aubrey Hunter laughed. "I was really happy," she said, "to get your call. It was just …" She wrinkled her nose as she sat down, still smiling broadly. She finished, "It was just such a surprise to hear from you. I guess we lost touch while I was in Afghanistan."

"It's good to see you safe and sound," Mac said sincerely. She nodded and he chewed his bottom lip. "Coffee? Can I get you something?" He was a bit nervous, trying to remind himself that this was just him being a cop and tracking down a lead. But of course it wasn't; he was in a coffee shop for God's sakes, catching up with an old flame whom he had just embraced. When was the last time he had done that while working? He stood up, anxious to do something. "How 'bout something to eat?" _What the hell, Mac?_ he asked himself. _You've got business to discuss._

"Just coffee would be fine," she said as Mac approached the counter.

He returned to the table, balancing a cup of coffee and a pitcher of cream, if he remembered right. Aubrey was pushing her hair out of her face and Mac noticed suddenly how much older she looked. He wondered if it had been Afghanistan that had aged her or simply the passage of time. He realized, happily, that he was no longer attracted to her in the slightest and recalled how their time together had largely consisted of two common elements: shared military history and pizza. Nonetheless, he had always cared for her, and his memories of their brief time together were fond. Aubrey was good people, and Mac had an impossible time thinking she was mixed up in something sinister.

He sat across from her and she asked, "So what's new with you?"

He leaned back in his chair and then placed his hands on the table. "I'm married," he replied.

"I saw the gold sparkling off your hand when I walked in here," she replied and nodded towards his hand. "_Not _… that I was looking," she quipped with a blush. Mac chuckled a little; he had looked too. Hers was bare. "Congratulations," she said warmly. "How long?"

"Bit over four years."

"I'm happy for you," she said, and Mac believed her. "So? I'm intrigued," she said, stirring the cream in the coffee. "Why am I here?"

Mac looked at her with his best expressionless, law-enforcement face and answered, "You filed mandatory HIV reports with the Department of Health for two people who landed in the morgue." Her expression changed slightly but she recovered quickly, maintaining a poker face. "I want to know what you know about them," he said quietly.

She laughed a little and countered, "Wow, Mac. Nothing like asking me to violate the most sacred privacy obligation I have." Mac didn't even smile. He was all business now. Her smile faded and she tilted her head. "I can't talk about my patients, you know that. Especially those with HIV."

Mac ran a hand across his mouth before saying coldly, "They're dead, Aubrey."

She swallowed and then said softly, "And privacy still attaches."

Mac stared at her a moment and then he pulled out the autopsy photographs of the two HIV-positive victims. He asked, "Were you their doctor?"

She avoided the photographs, took a sip of coffee and then chewed the inside of her cheek. "I can't tell you that." Mac narrowed his eyes and she said kindly, "I want to help you. I can tell you this: I have _no _idea what this is about, but if you provide me with a subpoena, I will be more than happy to cooperate fully with you." She smiled and reached for his arm. "I'm serious, Mac. I need a subpoena. It's the law."

He nodded and reached into his inside pocket to pull out a piece of paper. He handed it to her. She blinked in surprise at being presented with a subpoena, and he said moving his head back in forth in ambivalence, "I thought it might be … perceived as aggressive." She laughed as she pulled out a pair of glasses to read it over. "Do you need to speak to your lawyer before you respond?" he asked. Her head snapped up to see if he was serious. He was.

"You act like I have a lawyer on call or something," she said, looking over her glasses at him; she was amused. The tension was gone, and from a pure law-enforcement perspective, that pleased Mac. He would get more information. She bit her fingernail and then said, "I guess this is a subpoena, huh? I've never see one before."

Mac smiled now, anxious to keep up the good-natured rapport, and he nodded. "This is a subpoena." He tapped on the top of the page. "See? It even says SUBPOENA." She rolled her eyes at his teasing. "And it's signed by a judge." He tapped the bottom of the page.

"Okay," she said. "So I keep this, right?" Mac nodded. "Yes, they were my patients."

"You're in private practice now?" Mac asked. She nodded. "And these kids made it all the way over to your office on the Upper West Side?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, God no, Mac. Neither one had insurance. They wouldn't even know how to start to find a doctor with an office." He arched an eyebrow. "Um … I saw both of them at the mobile clinic. I volunteer a few times a month and do basic services, mostly for the homeless. Some prostitutes. A lot of drug users. We treat high-risk patients."

"So you go all over the city in this mobile clinic?" Mac beginning to suspect that all of the victims had received care at the mobile clinic. No need for a geographical connection; the clinic was the connection. She nodded. "Did you know they were using drugs?" She nodded. "What do you … How do you handle that?"

She snorted. "Mac, I try to have a treatment plan, but I consider it a success if I get _one _patient to return to me _one _time." She paused a moment. "These kids both did; they got their lab results." He clenched his jaw and she said, "So, I wrote the scripts for meds, and I gave them referral sources to get them at little to no cost. I also referred them to rehab centers but I'm a realist. So I tell them where they can get clean needles so I can minimize their risk of exposing others." He nodded. "Mac, what happened?" she asked quietly. "You said they died?"

"They overdosed." She shook her head. "But the drug's a new one and we think we have a chance to get it off the streets still." She nodded. He pulled out the photographs of the remaining victims and showed them to her. "Do you know any of them?"

She looked at each one carefully and then shook her head. "No. But I'm not the only doctor there. You should subpoena our medical records." Mac raised his eyebrows but nodded. He was already on that.

Mac returned the photographs to his file folder and then tapped the table with his fingers. "Do med students volunteer with the clinic?"

"Sometimes," she said.

"Do you know Chad Dawson?" She shook her head. "Lydia McEntire?" Another shake. "What about Davis Watt?" A brief pause, but Mac noted it, and then she shook her head. "Aubrey?" Mac asked, pressing her for information.

She hesitated and then admitted, "I treated a guy named Martin Watt. It's a common last name."

"It is," Mac said, writing it down. He looked at Aubrey who looked as if she was thinking about something. She was wondering whether a detail was important. Mac stared until she made eye contact.

"It's probably nothing," she said.

"Anything might matter."

She still hesitated, but Mac waited her out. Finally, "I've seen him hanging around the clinic, even without appointments. He seems to always show up no matter where we are. And I know he uses heroin." She paused before saying, "It's a little weird."

Mac stood up and drained his coffee. "A weird guy using heroin with the same last name is enough for me to look into it." She smiled uncomfortably, obviously worried she had ratted out an innocent patient. "Thank you," he said, turning quickly to leave. He turned just before exiting the café. "Hey, let your medical records people know a subpoena's on the way. Probably today, okay?" Aubrey rolled her eyes wryly. "Sorry to run so fast. Keep in touch, okay?" She waved at him. Mac had no plans to keep in touch.

* * *

Mac stood against the brick building and double-checked his Kevlar vest. He glanced at Flack who had just done the same and who was now checking his holster and weapon. Mac took in a deep breath and exhaled through his mouth, an attempt to calm himself. His heart was beating fast and loud, and Mac thought he could actually hear the blood as it swooshed through his body. He took in another breath and tried to slow his breathing.

"You think the lights mean they're home?" Flack asked quietly, gesturing towards the fourth floor of the building.

"We'll see," answered Mac. He wiped a bead of sweat off his face and then looked at Flack. "You ready?"

Flack nodded. Mac pulled out his weapon and followed Flack through the back door. They walked deliberately and silently across the concrete floor to another door behind which was a staircase. Their eyes moved quickly from a dark corner to a darker one. They stopped at the door and Mac nodded once. Flack opened the door and started up the staircase, weapon first. With barely an extra breath, they maneuvered four flights of stairs and entered the hallway where the suspects lived.

Their feet were silent on the red and gold carpet, and they stopped beside Apartment 4D. They listened carefully for sounds of life. Sounds from a television filtered from beneath the door. Flack nodded at Mac; he heard that too. When both men were in place, Mac banged on the door and shouted, "Davis Watt! Martin Watt! NYPD! Open up!" They waited a few seconds and gave a second warning. Hearing nothing, Mac nodded and Flack broke the door down.

They ran through the small apartment, one after the other, shouting "Clear!" as they entered and exited the three separate rooms. After only seconds, they met in the living room. Mac slapped at the television, turning it off, and then he swore in frustration. "They're gone."


	5. Chapter 5

**_Chapter Five_**

It was just before ten when Mac opened the balcony door with his elbow, balancing a cup of coffee and a glass of red wine in a single hand. Christine looked over her shoulder at him, surprised by his arrival. She hurried to accept the glass of wine. "I thought you'd be even later," she commented.

He leaned over and kissed her lips. "Our lead kind of fizzled tonight," he explained. "They're in the wind." He sat beside her and exhaled. "They probably took off the first time we sniffed around the lab." He shrugged one shoulder. "They just were one step ahead of us."

"Bummer," she said. Mac ignored the comment; "bummer" was an understatement.

"Nice night," he said, nodding into nothingness. "First one of the summer," he smiled. Two wooden chairs and a small side table barely fit on the balcony that was just off their bedroom. Three seasons of the year, they would enjoy early mornings or late evenings outside, always when the sun was below the horizon. Sometimes, at night, they'd shut off the air conditioning and leave the door open, a breezy wind keeping them cool. In the winter, though, the fact that the door was poorly insulated ensured that their bedroom was always six degrees cooler than the rest of the apartment. They cursed the balcony all winter, and forgot about it the first time they sat outside.

A pillar candle flickered on the table, casting a faint glow in a circle. Christine's book was beside it and Mac wondered how she had been able to read with the faint light. He concluded that she had been outside for quite a while. Their apartment overlooked a tiny city park that was, technically, closed at sun-down. He looked at the group of teenagers huddled beneath a streetlamp. He saw the orange glow from their cigarettes and commented, "I guess our evening entertainment is about to begin."

"You should probably call the cops on them," Christine winked.

"That's a good idea," Mac replied, making no effort to move. "Why don't you get on that?" he teased back. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left, resting his ankle on his knee. He sipped at his coffee, thinking. Christine was silent too. When she shifted in her chair, Mac's attention turned to her. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.

"Did Lindsay find you?" she asked in response. Mac shook his head. "She called and wondered if we can take Lucy and Jack next weekend. I guess she and Danny are going to Montana or something? And Danny's mom isn't well?"

Mac nodded. "Yeah," he explained. "I think they're closing up her dad's place. And Danny says his mom is tired all the time. The kids run in circles around her." Christine looked concerned. "I don't know what that's about. I s'pose I should ask." She nodded. "Anyway, he asked for vacation for both of 'em." Mac shrugged. "We're free, aren't we? They can spend the weekend here, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said distractedly. "It'd be fun. I said I'd double-check with you but I told her it was okay. The kids would have a good time on the train if we go to my parents' place, don't you think?"

Mac nodded and bobbed his foot up and down rhythmically. "What else is on your mind?" he asked after a pause.

"Nothing really," she laughed. He arched an eyebrow in disbelief. "I'm thinking that the breeze is nice. I'm wondering if those kids down there are old enough to smoke. I'm pondering where our next vacation should be. I'm wondering if I should sell the restaurant." Mac raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Not really," she laughed. "I don't know. ... Maybe. I like the catering stuff. Maybe I should sell the restaurant business and be a caterer instead."

"You're doing more of it," he agreed.

"Yeah. I like the food prep more than the people management. It's hard to get good service help, but my cooking and baking staff are great."

Her eyes lit up as she spoke, and Mac smiled. He put his coffee down and leaned forward. He reached across the table and grasped her free hand. Then he prompted, "What about heavy topics like babies and adoption? Are you thinking about those?"

"I'm trying not to," she said tightly. "Ever since you essentially shut that topic down." Mac breathed out slowly but his eyes never left hers and his hand didn't leave hers either. Instead, he tangled his fingers in hers, the grasp even tighter. "Okay, that wasn't fair," she conceded.

Mac shook his head in ambivalence and then shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I can kinda see how you might have had that interpretation." He looked down at the table and then he gestured with his chin towards the teenagers shoving each other playfully as they smoked. "Raising children isn't easy. Look at what your brother's going through. I mean Laura's always been a good kid and now she's having a baby and every other day she changes her mind about what to do. I _know _…" He tapped his finger on the table. "I _know _for a fact your brother is worried he and Em are going to raise that baby."

"How's that?" she asked, sipping her wine now.

"He thinks Laura's going to realize it's maybe not so easy to have a minimum wage job and raise a baby in a studio apartment ninety minutes away from the community college where she takes one class at a time." Christine frowned. "And he knows that Emily does not have the heart to tell her only daughter to suck it up –"

"Mac," Christine interrupted softly. He stopped speaking. "Do you know what your problem is?" Her voice was gentle so Mac smiled and waited. "You surround yourself with bad guys until all you see is the bad side of things."

Mac was silent for a moment. Finally he frowned. "You're right," he admitted. Suddenly, he stood up. He took two steps until he was in front of her and then he got down on his knees so his face was level with hers. Christine looked on, confused by what he was doing. He placed one hand on her chin and the other in her hair and he leaned forward and kissed her. His lips were soft but the kiss was firm and soon Christine had her hand around his neck. After a moment, they broke apart.

Christine asked, "What was that for?" Her hand was still on his cheek and she stroked it gently as she smiled at her husband.

"I love you," he said simply. "And I haven't told you in a while."

* * *

Mac rolled over in the bed, moving out of Christine's arms as he answered his cell phone. "Mac Taylor," he answered. He heard the sleep in his voice, glancing at the clock at the same time. It was the hour of the wolf, 3:41 AM. He heard nothing at first and Mac glanced at his caller ID. Flack or Jo were usually the ones to call at this time of night, but this time it was an unfamiliar cell phone number. "Hello?" he said more loudly.

"Who is it?" Christine asked sleepily.

"Hello? Who is this?" Mac asked, sitting up now. He heard some sounds from the phone and he squinted, trying to hear. "I can't hear you very well," he said. He tilted his head and thought he recognized the voice. "Sid?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"It's Sid?" Christine asked, moving to her side and propping her head up with her hand.

Mac nodded and mouthed, _I think so. _A few moments later, Mac spoke into the phone, "Yeah, this is Mac Taylor. Who is this?" He listened a few moments and then nodded his head. "Yes," Mac said quietly. "I can be there." He finished the call and frowned. He looked over his shoulder at Christine and frowned. "Sid's closing down a bar and doesn't have enough cash for a cab."

"What?" she said incredulously.

"I know," Mac said in disbelief. "I'm sort of at a loss for words, to be honest," he said, standing up and moving to the closet. He reached for a t-shirt and pulled it over his head. No work clothes. He was planning on returning home, Christine was pleased to see. Mac scoffed as he traded his pajamas bottoms for jeans. "Sid just wanted a place to drink. My guess he's in a dark corner facing the wall."

"I didn't know Sid drank that much," Christine commented.

Mac sat on the edge of the bed to stuff his feet into his shoes and avoided the implications. "Honestly, I don't know him all that well."

Christine was standing now and had pulled a robe around her. She followed Mac as he entered the bathroom, and she leaned against the doorframe as he brushed his teeth. While he gargled mouthwash, Christine asked, "So why you then?" Mac raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "Why not Jo?" Mac spit and wiped his mouth with a towel. Then he shrugged again and lifted his hands up in the air. He had no answer.

* * *

Mac stood in the break room, still wearing his faded jeans. Sid sat at a table, his head in his hands as he tried to make sense of moving floors. Mac filled a Styrofoam cup with day-old coffee and nodded at Jo as she entered the room. "Sid," she reprimanded. "Look at you. Drinking like a college kid." Mac slid the coffee towards his friend and then nodded with a stern frown as Jo asked him, "Did you really pick him up at a bar?" She shook her head and began. "What are you doing, Sid? Don't you know that –"

"Okay, okay," Mac said quietly, cutting off the admonishment. "I didn't get you out of bed to scold him. His daughter's missing and we need to find her."

"She's missing?" Jo asked in concern. "Becca?"

"Yes," Mac said. "She's been in rehab and –"

"Rehab?" she interrupted incredulously, looking at Sid for explanation.

"She's an addict," Sid exclaimed. "Heroin." Jo's jaw dropped. "She's been there ten days and she walked out tonight."

Jo exhaled audibly and sat down. She grabbed his hands and squeezed. "Oh Sid," she said sympathetically. "I'm so sorry."

"She's pregnant, you know." Jo didn't respond; it was evident she didn't know. Then Sid said quietly, "She found out she's HIV positive." Mac's jaw dropped a millimeter, it was a surprise to him too. Jo took in a breath. "She just found out. I think that's why she left. She hasn't been able to stay clean through the pregnancy and now she thinks she's given the baby a death sentence." He pulled out a piece of paper and opened it to show Jo and Mac. It was a note from Becca. "She says she feels alone." Sid's voice cracked as he said, "I haven't been there for her."

"Hey, hey, hey," Mac said, reassuring his friend and squeezing his shoulder. He grabbed the paper and folded it on the creases and gave it back to Sid. "She's just a child, Sid. They say all sorts of stuff and they don't mean half of it. Let's focus on finding her. Jo and I will find her. I promise you that." Jo looked at Mac, clenching her jaw. "We'll start where we found her last time. We'll find her, Sid."

* * *

Mac glanced at Jo in the passenger seat beside him. Her Kevlar vest was velcro'ed tightly across her chest, a baseball cap keeping her hair back. She too wore jeans and sneakers, the result of a middle-of-the-night personal call that Mac now suspected would capture their entire day. No progress would be made on hunting down the Watt brothers. "So we're heading towards the warehouse where I found her last time," Mac announced.

Jo nodded, acknowledging his statement. "How well do you know Sid?" she asked suddenly.

"I don't know," Mac said simply. "Well enough, I guess."

"Better than I thought you knew him," she said, pressing for answers. "He came to you once to track down his daughter. I didn't even know she was missing." Mac didn't answer. "Now he calls _you _to pick him up in the middle of the night. You knew she was pregnant. And in rehab. And you're the first to hear she's missing. Sid is practically _my _best friend. How come I didn't know?"

"He came to me to track down his daughter because I was the only one working that day." Mac paused and said, "He would have asked you if you were in the office."

"Did you know he drank that much?" she asked softly.

Mac squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers and then he said honestly, "I really don't know his daily drinking habits. No."

"Well, I know him better than you," Jo said. "And I think he drinks a lot. More than he should." Mac nodded slowly. "It's so easy to have something at night to unwind. And pretty soon, it's two or three glasses. And for some people, they just slip, don't they. They just keep going." After a few seconds of silence, Jo ordered quietly, "I think you should talk to him."

"I think Sid needs to make his own decisions about who he wants to talk to," Mac countered.

"Mac – " she began.

"Jo," he interrupted sharply. "I'm prioritizing right now. His child is missing." Jo nodded. "This place is around the corner. Now, when I was in there last time, it was mostly a bunch of addicts lolling around and sleeping. I didn't see weapons, but I'm guessing they were there. The tension was thick, and I got the feeling it could get hot pretty fast. I got in there, grabbed Becca and I was out. Two minutes tops. If she's not there, I think I can remember the guy she was hanging with. We can probably bring him in on a possession charge and press him for answers."

Jo shook her head and then said, "I just count my blessings that neither of my kids ever found the allure of narcotics. I can't imagine what Sid is going through."

"Hey," Mac said sharply. "There were needles and shit all over the place. Remember, she has HIV. And who the hell knows what else those kids got. They're on the street, living under bridges, probably sharing needles." She nodded distractedly, her eyes out the window. "Jo," Mac said. "Is your head in this?"

"Yeah," she said, turning to him, insulted. "My head's in this."

"Well, keep it there," Mac ordered. "Because if you can't distance yourself, we can't be doing this."

"Mac," Jo said loudly. "I heard you. Plan A: We're in, we're out with Becca. Plan B: We grab up the kid she was with. And in both cases, we watch our back and stay away from the needles." Mac smiled; he knew his second-in-command would be fine. "And Plan C?"

"I don't have one," Mac admitted.

* * *

Mac practically tossed the young man into the interrogation room. He flew across the room, nearly losing his balance as Mac followed him into the room. "Where's Becca?" he roared as soon as he slammed the door.

"Who?" The kid brushed his jeans off and looked around nervously. Hesitating first, he sat down, blinking as he tried to catch up with Mac.

"Becca. Rebecca. Becky. Whatever you call her. Where is she, Rudy?" Mac asked, leaning over the table and getting into the young man's face.

He blinked three more times and then shrugged. "I don't even know who you're talking about," he answered. "Sir," he added.

"Like hell you don't," Mac snarled. The young man swallowed. "You remember me?"

He looked down at his hands and then nodded. "Yeah." He looked up and made respectful eye contact with Mac and repeated, "Yes, sir."

Mac tilted his head, puzzled by Rudy. He was terrified by Mac, yet cooperative. Not what Mac had expected. His voice softened. "Do you remember who I plucked out of your arms two weeks ago?"

"Ahh…" he started in recognition. "Yeah, yeah. I think so. She was a nice girl. Becca, right? That's what you said, sir?"

"I need to know exactly where she is," Mac said, punctuating each word. "Right now. Or…" Mac looked over his shoulder at Jo entering the room. He looked back at Rudy, and decided to go all in. He would scare the information out of the boy. "I want a location on Becca or we are going to arrest you and charge you with possession with intent to distribute." Rudy's jaw dropped. Mac leaned forward, pointed at the young man and, in a low voice, said, "You had an entire heroin pharmacy on you and we'll make sure you don't see the sunlight under your bridge again."

"Mac," Jo said, tilting her head. "I need to speak with you," she said urgently.

* * *

"Okay," Mac said, a file folder in his hand as he sat down in the interrogation room again. Jo stood to Mac's right. His voice was low and tough, but he was controlled. The atmosphere in the room had changed. Rudy was still scared, but now he was sweating out withdrawal symptoms as well. Well he had a lot to be afraid of, Mac thought, not least of which was going to jail where his supply would be immediately cut off. "Look at me," Mac ordered Rudy. The kid slowly raised his eyes to Mac's. "Rudy, if you thought drug charges were bad, things just got a lot worse for you."

The boy's hands shook as he pulled his hair back into a ponytail. He didn't have an elastic band, though, so he released it, the hair falling over his eyes. "Two hours ago, Detective Danville and I brought you here because you know where Becca is." Rudy shook his head, and Mac nodded. "Yeah, you do. And we're going to get that information from you." Rudy looked away.

Mac continued, "You might also be interested in knowing that the drugs in your backpack match the heroin that's killing people." Rudy looked back at Mac. He tilted his head, confused. "Do you know what _that_ means?" Mac asked quietly. The boy shook his head and pushed the hair out of his face with trembling hands. "It means we're charging you with four counts of murder. As of today we know of four victims. I'm sure there will be more so you can expect your charges to go up too. In New York, just so you're fully aware, each carries a life sentence so you're looking at ... quite a bit of time." Mac stood up and gestured at Rudy. "The DA is on his way, but before he gets here, you need to stand up. We're going to arrest you, handcuff you, put you in a holding cell with the rest of the guys we've picked up tonight and -"

"Murder?" Rudy interrupted incredulously, his brain finally catching up with Mac's words. "I didn't kill anyone, sir."

"Jo," Mac ordered. She took a step closer. "Why don't you do it," he suggested. "Rudy, you want me to call your parents?" he asked.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Rudy practically begged, holding his hands up defensively. "Wait, sir. I can explain."

"No?" Mac asked matter-of-factly. "Alright. I'll tell the DA you didn't have anyone to call and -"

"Hold up, sir. I didn't kill anyone." Mac arched his eyebrows and waited. "I'll tell you everything I know. It's not much, but whatever I can do to help." Mac nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Sir," he said. "You were asking about Becca, right? Becca." Jo and Mac nodded. "I saw her tonight. I didn't talk to her or anything, but she probably went with that guy Martin to get some heroin." Mac frowned. "He sells to a bunch of us. I mean, he's a user too, but he still sells to us. She usually buys from him. Or his brother. But that's all I know about her," he asserted. "I just met her that one time. But, she's not anyone special … I didn't kill anyone, sir," he repeated. "I'm not a murderer. Not me, sir."

"She went with Martin Watt," Mac said as a statement. Rudy nodded. "To get drugs," Mac confirmed. Rudy nodded again. Martin Watt was Davis Watt's brother. Davis Watt was a medical student with access to the chemicals. Davis Watt was making synthetic heroin but he was getting it wrong. He was killing his clientele. The pieces fell into place. Normally, Mac would feel triumphant; now he thought of a pregnant girl with a needle in her hand, moments away from getting high. A pregnant girl whose father was his friend.

Jo leaned over, handcuffs in hand. "Where are they? Where are Martin and Becca?" she demanded.

"Over in Hell's Kitchen at his other place." Mac raised his eyebrows; that wasn't enough. "I don't know. It's like his brother's ex-girlfriend's stepmother's place. Something like that. It's just ... It's a pretty crappy place."

Mac slid a piece of paper over. "Write it down." Mac watched the young man write with shaking hands. When Mac picked the paper up, he said, "This better be right." Rudy nodded; it was right. A drug dealer's domain was sacred knowledge. Even a user wouldn't forget where to get his supply. Jo snatched the paper out of his hand and Mac said, "Run with it. Now, Jo."

Jo shut the door, already working on assembling a raid, Mac knew. Sid's daughter was the top priority. But, Mac looked at the young man, so young, so lost. He hadn't fought back, he had called Mac "sir". He had parents who had tried to raise him well. Mac somehow just knew that. He set his hand on his shoulder and said quietly, "You're lucky, Rudy. Those drugs would have killed you." Rudy nodded and chewed a fingernail. His hands still shook. This kid was collateral damage; he wasn't integral to the case, he was nothing but a customer. He was a child with an addiction problem. Mac bit his lip and then asked quietly, "How 'bout a hospital, Rudy? Would you go?" Rudy blinked in surprise. "An officer can take you right over." Rudy still hesitated. "It's jail or rehab, Rudy. Your choice." He waited as Rudy exhaled. "I'll give you a few minutes to think on it. Let me know," Mac said quietly as he left the room.

* * *

Mac stood beside Jo in front of the vehicle as they waited for the Narcotics team to sweep through the apartment. His radio crackled and reported quickly: Martin and Davis Watt were in custody, without incident. Jo raised a triumphant first. No girl, was the second radio call. Mac shook his head. _Damn it_, he whispered. _Where was she?_ The apartment was practically a chemistry lab, Narcotics reported. Davis Watt had been mixing and cooking synthetic heroin in the kitchen upon their arrival. Mac waited for the young men to be escorted out of the apartment, both with hands in handcuffs behind their backs. Mac stepped in front of Martin and stared him down. Martin's eyes slid sideways, unable to focus. He was the one on drugs. Then Mac looked to Davis.

"I want to know where Becca is," Mac ordered quietly.

"Becca?" Davis scoffed. "What do you want with Becca?" Mac stared, but didn't answer. Davis rolled his eyes. "She's … just a little girl." Mac waited. Davis shrugged. "She was here. But she left. She said she was gonna find her _dad_." Davis laughed now as he shook his head. "She was running home to Daddy."

* * *

Mac stood in the break room, ripping a package of sugar to pour into a Styrofoam cup of day-old coffee. His mind flitted to Rudy, the young man who had decided that the hospital might be an okay choice to make for tonight. Mac was glad for that. Maybe he'd do okay. Mac leaned his head against the cabinets and closed his eyes. He was tired.

_Mac chewed his lip as he looked across the table at the young New Jersey State Police officer. "You haven't been entirely forthcoming with me, Mr. Taylor." Mac arched an eyebrow towards the man whose name he would learn was Tony Sanchez. "You didn't tell me you were a New York City Police detective." Mac smiled and even laughed a little. "You think this is funny?" Officer Sanchez asked quietly. _

_"I think I'll be released on my own recognizance," Mac began, "and if a DA thinks a blood alcohol level of .11 is enough to file charges, the most I'll get is a suspended sentence."_

_"Your career won't survive a DUI," the officer said. _

_Mac scoffed. "Sure it will," Mac said. "I'm good at my job."_

_"You're cocky," Officer Sanchez countered. "Pride will be your downfall." He stood up and said, "I need to make a few calls and we'll see what my boss wants me to do with you. In the meantime, your ride is here." Officer Sanchez stood up and opened the door. Mac's jaw dropped when he saw who was standing there. He had been expecting his wife. _

_"Frank," Mac said. "Claire too busy to come?" he asked irritably._

_"She is," his father-in-law said, holding two cups of coffee. He sat down and handed Mac one of them. "She's busy getting the locks changed." _

_Mac exhaled and then looked down at his hands. After a moment, he looked up at the ceiling and ran his hands over his face. He looked back at his father-in-law and said, "She's overreacting. You know she is." _

_"My daughter overreacts sometimes," Frank admitted. "But not tonight." Mac took a sip from his coffee, not responding. Frank swallowed before saying, "I know this has been a rough week for you. You lost your partner and your mom is sick. But I had a rough week too." Mac tilted his head in confusion. "My daughter's called three times saying that her husband is a drunk." Mac's eyes flitted to the wall. Frank leaned forward and took Mac's chin in his hands and forced him to look at him. He said quietly and forcefully, "I love you like a son, Mac, but you are not in control." Mac stared back in defiance and after a moment dropped his eyes. He nodded once._

_In the end, it wasn't the threat of jail that prevailed upon him. Besides, as luck or fate would have it, by the end of the mysterious conversation between Officer Sanchez and his boss, charges were never filed. But it was the very real threat of divorce and the embarrassment of his father-in-law's intervention that set Mac straight. It was also Office Sanchez' business card in his pocket that helped. His home phone number and a signature. "Friend of Bill W. Call if you need something." Years later, Tony Sanchez was still Mac's sponsor._

"Mac?" Jo's voice interrupted. Her hand was on his shoulder. Mac opened his eyes and nodded at her. "Sid's asking about Becca. What do we tell him?"

"I'm on my way," Mac said, sipping at his coffee, his mind back on the present.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Thanks for all your detailed reviews - I will be getting back to all of you. We're nearing the end and I thank you for following and taking the time to comment. Oh - and I guess I was supposed to say this (Does it matter?), the CIS:NY characters don't belong to me. As if.

* * *

_Chapter Six_

Mac sat at his desk, looking out the window. It had now been seventeen hours since he had left his apartment in jeans to pick up Sid. He hadn't been home since, his case irrevocably linked to Sid's daughter. He had sent Sid home hours earlier, mostly sober, hoping that Becca would show up at her father's apartment.

They had two suspects in custody and it was now up to the DA to decide what charges to bring. Mac was hoping murder; he guessed manslaughter coupled with some narcotics charges was more likely. He shrugged it off. After he finished the paperwork in front of him, it would no longer be his concern. Davis Watt, a med student, had discovered, almost by accident, that he could synthesize heroin and sell it on the side to make some money. But he didn't have a criminal past and he didn't even know how to start. So, he consulted his brother, a heroin addict himself. Together, they decided to target other addicts getting free care at the mobile clinic. Rudy, and all of the victims in the morgue, had been patients. Sid's daughter was mixed up in the scheme entirely by accident. On the streets, she had known Rudy. She went to him, desperate for a fix, he had sent her to Martin, who had sent her to Davis, who had happily sold her drugs on her way out of his apartment.

The inescapable fact was that Becca was possessing a dangerous narcotic. Mac was holding out for a good outcome, but he expected he was deceiving himself.

He tapped his fingers on his desk and looked at the picture of Lucy and Jack smiling back at him. He looked at his calendar; what day was it already? Yes, it was Wednesday now. His godchildren would be coming to their home in a bit over a week. He knew what awaited him – loud, raucous, borderline hyperactive children who never went to bed. He chuckled to himself. He and Christine would love every minute.

Parenthood was complicated stuff. He knew that without being a father. He thought about the look of pride in Jo's eyes when she informed him that Ellie, a child who started out with no chance at life, was garnering Straight A's at an Ivy League college and thinking about Oxford. He thought about a resigned Sid, hoping beyond hope that his daughter would ask for help so she – and he – could have another chance. He thought about a skeptical Frank Conrad when Mac stood in the periphery and Claire told him that Mac was still living at home. _Things are better, Dad. Mac's doing so good. _

He thought of Claire, giving away the only child she ever had. He thought of Laura, changing her mind once again and insisting that she would keep her baby. He thought of Christine, whose heart ached to hold a baby of her own. He thought of the child that was nearly theirs. He wondered if the baby had been a boy or a girl, although in his mind, it had always been a boy. Did he have teeth yet? Was his mother a good mother? He thought of the nights that he and Christine had lain awake talking about surrogacy, domestic versus international adoptions, foster kids. He thought about his age, her age, their plans for retirement, how a child would impact those plans.

Mac exhaled. It had been one hell of a day, and he could finally breathe. Becca was still missing, but Mac had nowhere else to look and nothing else to do. He had called in that favor, and Missing Persons had, officially, opened a case.

He was tired and he wanted a night with his wife. He dialed her cell and smiled when he heard her voice. "Hey Christine," he said softly. He heard the sounds of the restaurant in the background so he asked, "You busy?" He smiled broadly at her response and swiveled in his chair towards the city lights twinkling outside the window. He nodded as he leaned back and rest his feet on the window ledge. "Yes, I wore jeans to work. All day, in fact. … What time can you get out of there? ... I'll swing by and get you. … Love you too."

* * *

Just as Mac was leaving, his cell phone vibrated. "Can this wait?" he asked in greeting. Three minutes later, Mac was rushing out the back door of his lab, looking for Adam who had snuck out the back for a quick smoke before discovering the horror show in front of him. "Don't touch her, Adam," he ordered the younger man who stood near a pasty white body with blood pouring out of her nose. A few security lamps cast the only light in the back of the building.

"I didn't," Adam insisted, standing numbly as if he wanted to help but didn't know what to do. "I called EMS."

"Good," Mac said, pulling the young man out of the way. "Stay back," he ordered. The girl was propped against the brick building, her head tilted to the side, her eyes closed.

"Is she breathing?" Adam asked softly, still staring.

Mac fell to his knees beside her. He knew he shouldn't do it, and he hesitated. He had a paper cut on the tip of his finger and a small wound by his thumb from the kitchen knife the night before. But nobody else was there. He reached out and touched her neck, looking for a pulse. He leaned his face forward to feel for a breath. "She's breathing." He ordered Adam, "Get Hawkes out here." He held his hands in front of him and then said as an afterthought, "And get me some gloves."

Mac lightly slapped the girl's face, trying to touch her wherever her fluids weren't. "Stay with me, Becca. Stay with me." He looked at her clothes; they were stained in urine, and there was a steadily increasing pool of blood beneath her. _Urine, okay._ _Blood, not okay, _he instructed himself as he thought about risk of HIV transmission. "Becca!" he yelled as her eyes opened and then rolled back. She tried to focus on Mac, and he saw her eyes starting to move in his direction. "Becca, you need to work with me here."

She murmured – a half moan of pain, Mac thought – and she tried to reach for him. She whispered, "My baby."

"That's right," Mac said. "Think about your baby. Help's on the way." She fell towards him and Mac reached for her. She was so desperate, so scared that Mac placed his hand on the back of her head and held her to him. He tried to soothe her, reminding himself that this girl was Sid's daughter. "Hang in there." He ran his hand through her dirty hair and spoke softly. "We're getting you help."

Without warning, she threw up, leaving a pile of vomit in his lap. Once again, he reminded himself, _Vomit okay._ The blood pool beneath her was expanding so after another brief moment of hesitation, he laid her back and pulled her yoga pants off. A quick assessment told him everything he needed to know, and he ordered, "Do not push. You hear me Becca? We need a doctor." Her head lolled back, and Mac felt helpless. "Where's EMS?" he shouted to the crowd starting to assemble.

He looked down and saw a blue baby emerging from Becca. _Jesus God. _Without allowing himself to think, he reached for the baby in one hand and pulled a silent, limp baby boy out. Instinctively, he unwound the cord from the neck with the other. "Okay," he said to himself. "ABC. Airway. Breathing. Circulation." He left the cord intact and held the baby for a moment, anxious for a cry. "Come on," he ordered quietly, getting no response.

Adam was suddenly there, saying "Hawkes is coming. I have gloves." It didn't matter now, so Mac didn't stop. "What do you need, Boss?" he asked, gloving up himself.

"Airway. Breathing. Circulation," he repeated. "Try something," Mac ordered. With one hand, he tilted the baby, impossibly small, and reached in with his finger to clear out the mouth. He set the baby on the asphalt and bent over to start rescue breathing. Mac's mouth fit over the entire face. He breathed gently – too gently for anything to happen he thought – but the chest moved.

He looked behind him, Adam was assessing Becca. His sure hands were on the unconscious girl's face and he was leaning over to check for a breath. "She's still breathing," he announced. Mac nodded and released another puff of air into the child. "Here's Hawkes," Adam announced.

Hawkes approached, medical bag in hand. "Double glove," Mac ordered. "The baby was just born. Two months premature. Mother's name is Becca. She's HIV positive and she's been on the streets. I think she's taken heroin and …" His voice trailed off as he got out of the way for Sheldon's medical care. Sheldon was fitting a tiny ventilator over the mouth of the baby.

Adam still focused on Becca, whispering soothing words to her as he propped her bloody legs higher than her heart to keep her from entering shock. His expensive jacket was tucked around the vomit-covered girl to keep her warm. There was nothing anyone could do and yet Adam did something. Mac felt a surge of pride for the young man and he leaned over Adam to whisper, "Alright, Adam. Let Sheldon work."

"Anything else Mac?" Sheldon asked business-like, squeezing the ventilator over the baby while moving towards Becca.

Mac nodded. "Yes. She's Sid's daughter."

Hawkes blinked in surprise and Adam's head snapped up. Adam moved out of the way for Hawkes and wiped the sweat out of his face. Mac stood, his hands in the air, his clothes filthy. "Okay, Becca, my name is Sheldon Hawkes. I'm a doctor and I'm going to help you. Can you tell me how you feel?" She didn't respond. Hawkes quickly checked vital signs and then turned to the baby. He ordered Mac and Adam, "Get out of those clothes. Wash everywhere with soap and water and get to the ER right now. Both of you. You need to start post-exposure prophylaxis for both Hepatitis and HIV."

Mac nodded but stood immobile. And then, as if something clicked, he reached for Adam's arm and said, "Let's go, Adam. Right now."

* * *

Christine opened the curtain behind which Mac sat. He wore hospital scrubs as bottoms and was shirtless. He had five bandages on his upper arms, masking tiny pinpricks from painful vaccinations. He was silent as he looked her over. She was pale, her hair was messy and dark circles made her eyes look sunken. "Christine, I'm sorry. I just … I was the only one there and I tried to stay away and be careful, but … she's Sid's daughter. I mean … I had to."

She nodded and scooted onto the gurney where he sat. She looked at his torso, marred by an irregular vertical line from chest to below the waist band of his pants. A shooting years ago had nearly stolen his life. The entrance wound on his back was ironically nearly invisible; it had been the life-saving efforts of the surgical team that had scarred his front. She had gotten used to how he looked; it was just Mac. Tonight, she was reminded how she had almost lost him before he was hers. She reached for his left hand and began to massage it, her fingers lingering on the wedding band. She brought his fingers to her lips and kissed each of them. She spoke softly and slowly, "I was waiting at the restaurant and when you didn't come, I tried to call you and you didn't pick up. So then I called Jo and she said you were at the hospital and …" Mac closed his eyes and shook his head.

She took a deep breath and released it as Mac interrupted, "I'm okay, Christine." She nodded and he continued, "Things were crazy for about fifteen minutes and then I called you and –"

"I got your message," she interrupted. "And your text," she smiled.

"But I'm sorry you talked to Jo before you heard from me," Mac said sincerely.

"You scared me," she said simply. Mac nodded and chewed his bottom lip. Christine swallowed and then asked all-business like, "So, what did the doctor say?"

"He said I'll be fine," Mac said easily. "I've already received more shots than I thought possible and the good news is if we want to go to Africa on that next vacation, I already have the immunizations. I don't think I'm going to be sick in the next ten years."

She released a half-laugh and half-cry. "You are such a stupid man," she said, looking at the ceiling and wiping away a few tears.

"I'm sorry," Mac repeated. He waited and then informed her seriously, "I have prescriptions to take for four weeks. If there was exposure, and there probably wasn't, that reduces the likelihood by at least eighty percent. I started treatment within an hour of exposure, Chris. I'll be fine." Science was on his side, he knew that.

"I know," she said, and she did know. She exhaled and then said, "I talked to Jo again just a few minutes ago."

"And?" Mac prompted.

"Sid's daughter?" Mac nodded. Christine looked away and then squeezed Mac's hand again. "She didn't make it," she informed softly. Mac blinked in surprise, his expression changing to sadness. He looked up at the ceiling as Christine continued, "She lost too much blood giving birth and they're pretty sure she would have died from the overdose anyway and …" Christine reached for Mac's arm as her voice trailed off.

"And the baby?" Mac asked hesitantly.

"A boy. You already know that, I guess," she said. He nodded. Christine was quiet for a moment and she informed him, "He's in the NICU and it's not looking great. But you never know. Jo's with Sid and the family. She wants to take him home. There's not much more he can do tonight and he needs to sleep." She hopped off the gurney and reached for a bag that she had set on a chair. She opened it and handed him a pair of pants and a shirt. "Get dressed, Mac. I'm taking you home too."

* * *

Christine stood in the kitchen and spun her wedding ring around in a circle as she waited ten seconds for the butter to melt. When the microwave stopped, she took out the tiny glass dish and added it to the flour mixture. She whisked the ingredients together, forcing her mind to focus on the cooking. It was a silly meal to prepare, but Mac liked waffles and it was easy to do in ten minutes when the clock was long past midnight.

He had been awake too long and seen too much, and his senses were overwhelmed. He had needed to debrief with Adam, and Christine stood to the side and watched how he tracked Adam down in the hallway of the hospital. Mac had placed his hand soothingly on the younger man's shoulder and given him news that the first aid he had administered had not been enough. They hadn't saved her, despite their valiant efforts. Adam wept openly upon learning the news, and Mac had embraced him, but he stayed stoic, ever the strong boss. It had been a tough day for them all.

Mac had wanted to see Sid too, but he learned the family had assembled, a chaplain was present, and funeral arrangements were already underway. All the while, they were maintaining a round the clock vigil at the NICU for the baby. There was nothing for Mac to do, nothing for him to say, so he had looked towards Christine and given a nod. Time to go.

He had been quiet on the ride home, his head bobbing to the music that soothed them both. When they arrived home, he went straight to the shower, where he was still now. She glanced at the clock; he was taking a very long shower. His badge sat in the ceramic dish, gleaming back at her. His weapon and ammunition were securely locked away in the closet. His phone was plugged in by the table. It was turned off. He was spent. Even the boss was done for the day.

He entered the kitchen, wearing sweatpants and a University of Chicago t-shirt. His hair was wet, he looked tired, but he no longer looked desperate. He stood behind her, touched her shoulders, kissed her cheek and then he wrapped his arms around her waist and squeezed her. "You don't know how good that smells," he whispered. "I'm starving."

She chuckled a little and turned around to him. She kissed his lips, both hands on his cheeks and then she scolded, "Well don't get used to this. Because I don't really like cooking meals for strangers for twelve hours, waiting in the hospital for three hours while my husband gets sanitized, and then coming home to make another meal. My kitchen's usually closed by now." She picked up the whisk and began stirring the batter.

"Okay," Mac said, his eyes sparkling. "I hear you." He reached around and grasped the hand that was whisking. She stopped, arching her eyebrows. He took the whisk from her and nudged her towards the table. "Take a seat, ma'am. Because I have mess duty tonight."

It didn't take long and soon Christine and Mac were seated across from each other, a plate of steaming food in front of each. Mac covered his waffles with syrup; Christine cut up a banana that they shared. She mentioned a movie she wanted to see and they made plans for Friday. He announced that U2 was coming in September. Maybe they should go, get a hotel room and stay the night. Oh hey, did she tell him? She had an out-of-the-blue offer from someone who wanted to buy her restaurant. Mac said she should think about it. Maybe they should talk to a lawyer to help with the negotiations. He mentioned it was Open Enrollment and they should look at the new benefits packages being offered. He had a whole folder somewhere with details. And, oh yeah, that reminded her, Papa wanted her and Mac to have power-of-attorney over her parents' bank accounts. It was getting hard for them to manage. She'd get him the forms to sign. Okay, he nodded. Oh, he started, one more thing ….

They caught each other up on the ordinary and mundane with nary a word about drugs, alcohol, children, death, HIV and all the rest that had consumed them for weeks. They still had plenty to talk about, and even though lives were torn apart all over the city, Mac and Christine were content. They slept very well that night.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: This is it, folks! Thanks for following - I appreciate the great response to my first "real" story. I've enjoyed the journey! The CSI:NY characters are not mine.

* * *

_Chapter Seven_

Mac knew he'd be fine, but he was still relieved to get the clean bill of health. Christine would be happy too, because although Mac had taken every single pill of every single prescription for every single day, he felt as if he had spent the better part of a month vomiting. He had altogether lost his appetite and with that seven pounds. His productivity at work had fizzled, and he had been endlessly tired. Not to mention more bizarre side effects like dry mouth, skin rashes … the list went on. So, it would be an understatement to say that Mac was happy to get back to normal.

He was walking through the automatic door to exit the hospital when his mind landed on Sid. He was worried for his colleague who had been on a leave of absence since burying his daughter. Jo reported he spent his days at the hospital, his nights in a dark apartment. She thought he was drinking, and, once again, she thought Mac should talk to him. But Mac hesitated. Sid had joined him at two meetings nearly six weeks ago, and Mac had thought they had reached an understanding. Yet, Sid hadn't returned and so maybe he wasn't ready, or maybe he was in denial, or maybe – just maybe – he didn't need the kind of help meetings could offer. And Mac, imperfect himself, knew he didn't hold the monopoly on sobriety.

But Sid had asked Mac for something, and if Mac was being fair, he had not given the request its due attention. He wasn't sure how to do it, so Mac hesitated and didn't do anything. But Mac knew if he didn't try something, he was doing nothing, and that was not what Sid had asked him to do. So, on a whim, he turned back. He'd at least stop by the NICU and check in. He could visit baby Luke and see how things were going.

Mac stopped in the hallway. Sid sat on a bench, his head in his hands. He shifted and looked at the ceiling. His hands shook when he moved, and Mac knew he was witnessing something private. Mac contemplated leaving Sid to his moment, but when his colleague looked up and caught Mac's eyes, Mac nodded. Sid stared back and then looked away. Mac saw him exhale and then he stood up.

"You alright?" Mac asked as he approached.

Sid nodded and then smiled. He stretched and explained, "We're trying to figure out where Luke will go when he's discharged." Mac offered a sympathetic smile. "Becca's mother won't take him. Luke needs too much care and even though she wants to help, she's been through too much with -"

"Sid," Mac interrupted. Mac stuffed both hands in his pockets and looked at his feet. He continued haltingly, "I … I … know you have a lot to sort out, but …" Mac paused and then looked just beyond Sid as he finished, "but you should go to a meeting." Sid's jaw dropped a millimeter, surprised by Mac's suggestion and the way he was cutting off any other conversation. Mac forged forward quietly, looking down the hallway and not his friend. "You asked me to be your sponsor, Sid, and I know I haven't offered much. But…" Mac shrugged. "It's time."

Sid chuckled in derision, but Mac nodded seriously. "I've been where you are. I remember when Claire died. I told myself I had too much to deal with to fit in a meeting. Predictably, I drank away the last three months of 2001." Sid looked up at him, surprised. Mac nodded. This is what a sponsor did. You shared what worked for you. And what didn't.

"And then when Jess Angell died? Remember that? The night Danny got shot?" Sid nodded. "I told myself I was so important that I needed to be there at that bar with everyone else. So I sucked down a scotch with the team. Then later at the hospital, when it was touch and go with Danny? Do you know what I was thinking about?" Sid waited for the answer to the rhetorical question. "I was thinking about booze, and how I had just proven that I could handle it. I stopped at one drink." He released a sardonic laugh. "Do you even know how stupid that was, Sid? Bullets blew the hell out of that building and shattered every damn bottle in there, but I told myself I was in control." Mac chewed his lip and then continued in a self-deprecating manner, "So, like anyone else who had been sober for six years, I bought a bottle on my way home and drank 'til I passed out." Sid blinked in surprise. "The next morning, I finished it off before I saw Danny. I didn't think I was drunk, but Lindsay sent me home. That's how helpful I was to her."

Sid nodded a little, looking at his colleague with different eyes. Mac shuffled his feet and focused on a black spot on the floor. "That was the last drink I had. Not a drop since then. Although I drink in my dreams," he added. Sid smiled and nodded, urging Mac to continue.

"There are times it's easy, but I'm not going to lie. There are times this is the hardest thing I've ever done." He cracked his knuckles and breathed out. He finally sat beside Sid and looked at the floor. Sid waited in silence until Mac finally said, "Christine doesn't even know this, but I don't have children today because Claire wouldn't have them with me." Sid looked up, furrowed his eyebrows, saw true pain in Mac's eyes. "She didn't think I could do it." Mac took a shaky breath, getting his emotions under control. "We had a lot of good years together and I wasn't a mess the whole time," Mac said. He chewed his bottom lip and then added, "But she didn't get the best of me. I can admit that now."

After a quiet moment, Mac said, "Back to you, my friend." He paused and now, looking in Sid's eyes, he said, "You can take it or leave it, but I've found, that when my life is out of control, I do best when I take an hour and go to a meeting." He pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Sid. "Here's the schedule at the hospital here. Maybe one will work out."

* * *

Mac's steps were steady and deliberate as he walked the nine blocks. Mac enjoyed the warmth from the high summer sun and let his mind wander. His friend was lost, Mac knew that, but he had done what he could – at least for today – and now it was in Sid's court.

Spontaneously, he decided he would bypass his office and surprise Christine at her restaurant. They had stayed up late the night before, talking – once again – about adoption. The conversations were starting to coalesce around international options this time. The process might be slow and unpredictable, the children more varied in their needs, but in the end, if they could wait out the process, they would have a child. At their age, they'd have to take an older one – or a sibling group – or one with special needs. All that gave them pause. He and Christine hadn't decided anything for sure, but Mac knew the time was coming to stop talking and get moving.

His telephone vibrated as he walked and Mac pulled it out. _R u healthy? _she asked, a text-message version of a smiley face included.

He had planned to tell her over lunch but he didn't really mind sharing good news. _Yes. All is good, _Mac replied.

_Have u ever?_ was the near immediate message from his wife.

Mac smiled a little, debating the options in his head. _Is this another game? _he typed and hit send.

_Yep. Plz play._

Mac was at a red light so he had time. _Now?_ he replied, laughing out loud. He held up his phone in explanation at the woman who cast suspicious eyes at him.

Her response was near instant: _Have u ever taken a day off just so u cld spend it with ur wife? _Mac furrowed his brow. He wasn't sure if it was a game or an admonishment. Another text came through: _Because if u could, I have an idea._

_Sounds like you're playing Truth or Dare, _Mac replied, smiling sideways.

_OOH! Even better. I dare u to take the day off._

Mac had to pass his office on the way to her restaurant and he stopped when he found his wife standing in front of the building, her cell phone in hand. He approached her with an amused smile on his face. "What's your idea?" Mac asked in greeting, startling her.

"You're here," she replied, leaning up for a quick kiss.

"I'm here," Mac said, pocketing his cell phone.

"Jo said you might take the rest of the day, and I was wondering who you were planning to spend it with," she teased.

"I was planning," he began, "to pass this building right by and have lunch at a fabulous restaurant with the most beautiful chef in New York." He placed his hands on his hips and quipped, "But I guess she's not there."

"No," Christine shook her head. "She's not there. Instead, she's thinking it would be nice to drag her husband to Penn Station so they could take the train to the Hamptons," she said, nodding at the weekend bag she had packed.

"The Hamptons?" Mac asked incredulously, although her idea already held some appeal. She nodded. "Why?"

"Because my manager can handle the restaurant without me this weekend, because the last two months have, basically, sucked…" Mac chuckled now and she continued, "And because tomorrow morning, I want to wake up in your arms looking at the ocean and take a walk on the beach with you before breakfast." She looked around and whispered, "No one knows you're here. We'll be home Sunday. You'll only miss half a day of work."

Mac looked at his watch and then reached for the bag. "Have you ever _been_ to the Hamptons in June?" he asked.

"No," Christine replied. Then she asked coyly, "And have you ever been with a woman who has been waiting an entire month to sleep with you?"

Mac smiled a little and then replied with a little spring in his step. "Let me think about that one … There might have been …" He laughed when he felt her punch him in the bicep. She giggled and wrapped her hand around his forearm and leaned into him as they walked. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, whispering, "You're not the only one who's been waiting."

* * *

**Epilogue **

_A few years later_

Mac took the steps two at a time, hoping the speed at which he took them was a hint at the speed of the upcoming meeting. It hadn't been easy to get away tonight, his wife understandably miffed that he was leaving her with a sink full of dishes and a borderline crazy person to entertain. But it had been eight days since Mac had been and eight days was about as long as he dared go without at least checking in. He knew Christine didn't truly understand the work the program required, but he had over ten years of continuous sobriety; his wife had never known him any other way, and for that, he was proud. He intended to keep it that way. Vacation or no vacation, he needed to make it work.

It was unprecedented for Mac to take three weeks straight, but the NYPD owed him the time, and besides, Mac had learned rather late in life that time off was good for him. He and Christine had only planned on a week, but anyone Mac's age knew that best laid plans often go astray.

Mac had begun the vacation with a quick cup of coffee with his newly-departed lab tech. The lab felt the loss of Adam deeply, although Mac had tried to plan for it. He had written a recommendation for him after all, so he knew it was coming. Not surprisingly, though, Adam was struggling in his first week of his new career path. But all he needed was a pep talk, which Mac gladly gave. "The Police Academy isn't supposed to be easy," Mac offered. "But you'll make it," he told him. "And a few months from now, this will all be in your rearview mirror." Mac gave Adam a friendly swat on the back as he walked out. "You'll be fine," he said.

Two days later they joined Christine's family in celebrating the marriage of their niece Laura. Years ago, she had given her daughter up for adoption, an anguished decision for the family. Today, she had finished college, was gainfully employed and had just married a young officer currently serving in the United States Marine Corps. The similarities were not lost on Mac. But unlike Claire, their niece had scheduled contact with her child and her family. They didn't speak of it often, but it seemed that the open adoption had been a success.

They had also spent a relaxing day at the Central Park Zoo with their favorite family of two: Sid and young Luke. Mac's friend had retired from the Medical Examiner's office to raise his grandson. He complained often that he was worn out, but just as often, he told Mac that kids keep old people young. The boy had developmental challenges, but with the early intervention Sid had secured, his future was hopeful. Sobriety had been a struggle for Sid – a recent relapse had set him spinning, but, all he could do was start again. And he had.

Mac was also taking the time to consider – seriously – other options. He wasn't ready to retire, but he was ready to step down as Lead Investigator of the NY Crime Lab. His plans were beginning to coalesce. He could consult from afar, reviewing cold cases that interested him and making suggestions at an hourly rate. He would travel on occasion, but, for the most part, he could do it from the porch.

Christine too was hoping for a change. Two years ago, she had sold her restaurant and had opened a catering business that allowed her to step away from her job a little more regularly. Now, she was exploring potential catering sites here. She hadn't found anything, but Mac knew it was just a matter of time.

Mac and Christine never did adopt a child. Instead, they hiked the Appalachian trail, took a safari in Zimbabwe, biked in Ireland. Their biggest change had been the purchase of a vacation home a bit farther down Long Island. Mac hated to admit it was the Hamptons, but it was, and he and Christine spent every weekend they could here. The couple enjoyed the mornings sipping coffee on the ocean before bobbing in and out of antique shops. They had talked about living here full-time. If Mac made the career change he contemplated, it would work. Christine was taking the lead in setting down roots here – joining a book club at the local library, accepting dinner invitations from new acquaintances.

They were fully engaged as godparents to Danny and Lindsay's children, step-grandparents to Reed's new baby, and favorite aunt and uncle to Christine's family, all of whom seemed to be reproducing at an alarming rate. Children surrounded them.

And besides, their second bedroom wasn't always empty.

* * *

The meeting had taken less than an hour, so Mac had only been gone sixty-six minutes. Yet somehow things were different. He knew already. He stood just outside the front door and listened. He heard nothing, which scared him given that the hours between seven and eleven had become the equivalent of hell on earth. He and Christine had plucked Eliza out of a chaotic emergency room. Her mother had been killed in a drug deal gone bad, just four feet away from where the child slept. Signs of abuse were evident on her but there was no need for her to stay in the hospital any longer. Her next-of-kin, the grandmother, was mentally ill and unfit to parent the girl. So Eliza had sat on a hard bench and rocked back and forth for hours until OCFS finally placed the call to Mac and Christine to serve as an emergency foster home.

They had done it before: twenty-one hours with a sibling group until their aunt could take them in; one night with an infant until the grandparents arrived; two nights with a three year old until the mother was located.

And Eliza was only supposed to stay twenty-four hours. But then the permanent foster home fell through and OCFS needed just a bit more time. _What was permanent foster care anyway? _Mac wondered aloud. Still they agreed to tough it out for three days. But on the fourth day, when they hadn't heard anything new, Christine called to check. OCFS was asking if they would consider a month, she reported back to Mac. Just a bit longer until they could get a family member licensed.

Mac didn't expect the month to be easy. Eliza was nine years old, already damaged. She didn't talk much, but when she did, her attitude rivaled the hardest criminal Mac had ever put away. At night, she cried and screamed and hit and bit and kicked, all in an effort to avoid going to bed. She was failing third grade, and she didn't even know. Mac didn't think she could read. Christine was stunned to realize she didn't spell her name right. Every routine request was a battle, and it was exhausting them. So Mac took more time off. It was clear the child needed constant attention.

Mac and Christine had called to protest. Thirty days might be too long. OCFS had begged them to hang on, just a bit longer. They were in the process of licensing the girlfriend of Eliza's great uncle. Besides, Eliza's social worker reported, the girl was happy with the Taylors. _Fine_, Mac said. _We'll do thirty days._

So Christine suggested they get away. Maybe they could take her to the Hamptons. She had never been out of the city. She had never stayed in a house – only crowded apartments. She had never been anywhere close to that much fresh air. Mac wasn't sure; he wasn't even sure they could handle her if she acted out. But they had managed the train ride, and there were moments today – few as they were – where Eliza seemed to enjoy herself. She had walked along the beach and smiled when she found a shell. She had chopped green peppers for dinner and accepted direction from Christine, although Mac kept a watchful eye on the girl with a butcher knife. She had licked the ice cream cone warily and sat on a bench alone, but she made eye contact with Christine and said the treat was good, when prompted.

So after dinner, Mac had gone to a meeting, and Christine had asked Eliza to take a bath. Mac had been gone more than an hour. Christine was probably balancing on the edge of sanity. But when he opened the door, all was silent. _Thank God_, he thought.

He practically tiptoed through the home, he was that desperate to maintain the peace. The hallway light was off but Mac saw a faint glow coming from their second bedroom, the one where Eliza slept. He stopped in the doorway, leaned against the doorjamb and watched.

Christine sat in the rocking chair, the nine year old girl curled into a ball in Christine's lap. She wore turquoise unicorn pajamas that Christine had recently purchased in an attempt to replenish the child's limited clothing supply. Her short wet hair was held out of her face with a soft headband, and Mac could tell Christine had made an amateur attempt at trimming the crooked bangs Eliza had arrived with. The child was awake, but her eyelids were heavy. She was sucking her thumb and holding a doll; Mac wasn't aware they owned the toy. Favorite children's books rest on the floor. _Good Night Moon. The Giving Tree. _Eliza's eyes slowly drooped and finally shut as Christine rocked back and forth, rubbing the child's back. Her thumb fell out of her mouth.

Mac stepped into the dimly-lit room and nodded at Christine when she looked up. Eliza was asleep. Although the girl was heavy for her age, Mac picked her up easily and brought her to the bed. The quilt had already been pulled back, and Mac pulled it up to her chin, tucking it in around her. Her eyes opened momentarily, and Christine sat on the edge and rest her hand in her hair. Eliza closed them again as Christine sang the lullaby quietly.

Lullaby and goodnight.

In the sky stars are bright.

Close your eyes, start to yawn,

Pleasant dreams until the dawn.


End file.
